


Bake to Remember, Eat to Forget

by butyoureyessaidyes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Amnesia, Baker Stiles Stilinski, Bakery, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Boykisses, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt Derek, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Memory Loss, Mystery, Panic Attacks, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Temporary Amnesia, pack adjacent Peter Hale, unorthodox use of frying pans and rolling pins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2018-11-29 20:11:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 125,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11448201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butyoureyessaidyes/pseuds/butyoureyessaidyes
Summary: It’s 6:18 A.M. on a Monday, and Stiles is using his thumbs to shape the fondant butt of a Winnie the Pooh sculpture. It’s the most action he’s seen in a long time.--Or the one where Stiles runs his own bakery, never locks the front door, and doesn't know he's part of a werewolf pack (until he does).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a labor of love. I started writing it exactly three years ago, and it's finally complete! Other than that, please note this story is canon compliant through season 6A, although Erica and Boyd are still alive. It's set about five years after everyone finishes high school.
> 
> A huge thank you goes out to [Natalie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentBarnes616) for volunteering her time to be my beta. You're a gem!

It’s 6:18 A.M. on a Monday, and Stiles is using his thumbs to shape the fondant butt of a Winnie the Pooh sculpture. It’s the most action he’s seen in a long time.

He grimaces apologetically as he shoves half a wooden kabob skewer up Pooh’s ass, and then carefully sinks the other end of the skewer into a fondant-covered Rice Krispie hill in the “over the hill” custom cake order he’s been slaving over for the past three hours. While custom orders are merely another part of running a bakery, what most people don’t realize is that the effort to produce those custom orders has to happen in conjunction with everyday tasks at the bakery. Considering running a bakery is beyond a full-time gig, custom orders, especially at the small business level, usually get filled after hours.

Which is why Stiles no longer has a social life. And is apparently thinking about his lack of a social life while fondling a cartoon bear made from water and sugar.

He’s in the middle of boxing up the completed cake when he hears jingling from the bells above the front door, signaling that someone can’t read the _CLOSED_ sign hanging in the window. He flails a little since he’s still holding the cake, and both his hands are trapped awkwardly at the bottom of the box he’s trying to place it inside.

“Uh, we’re not opening for another couple hours!” he hollers, cringing on reflex because he realizes it’s rude to be shouting through the wall like this. But a swinging door separates the kitchen from the shop front, and Stiles isn’t going to drop everything just so he can go out there to yell at some idiot who can’t read.

Said idiot must realize this because a moment later, Stiles hears the distinct swishing sound of the swinging door pushed open, before it lazily see-saws back and forth and slowly stills again.

Stiles groans audibly but controls his temper long enough to carefully and securely drop the Pooh cake into its box. Then he wipes his hands on his apron and whirls around, fully prepared to make a disparaging remark about this idiot’s inability to read signs, but then his eyes land on the intruder, and the words die on Stiles’ lips. “ _Whoa_ ,” he breathes out, loud enough only for his own ears, “talk about drop dead _delicious_.”

The guy who’s barged into Stiles’ shop looks like he’s just walked off a GQ photo shoot for badasses. He’s right around Stiles’ height, and he’s got broad shoulders, a trim waist, and muscles that could only be the result of a sacrifice to the pizza gods. Or something. Maybe the reverse of that? Not that Stiles knows the reverse of pizza. But the point is that the guy is _ripped_. He’s dressed in painted-on jeans, a gray shirt, and a black leather jacket. Stiles notes the light dusting of stubble across his jaw when he realizes the guy is talking, and Stiles hasn’t heard a single word he’s said.

“Sorry, what?” Stiles says dumbly.

The guy clenches his perfectly chiseled jaw because evidently, he’s repeating himself. “Is there anywhere I can lay low back here? Only for a couple minutes,” he says just as casually as one might ask to use the restroom. And then he moves away from the swinging door and begins to search Stiles’ kitchen, as though he’s hiding a secret bunker under the stand mixer or something.

“Hey! What the—wait a minute!” Stiles rushes up to the guy and wraps his hands around a very firm bicep to pull him to the center of the kitchen, where he can’t get his hands on anything else because health codes are a thing. “Okay, those are real,” Stiles blurts out, giving the bicep under his palms an appreciative squeeze.

The guy yanks his arm back and scowls. “Listen to me very carefully—”

Stiles scoffs, affronted. “You listen to _me_ , bucko. If you’re not outta here in the next five seconds, I’m calling the cops on your ass.” The guy cocks a disbelieving eyebrow at Stiles’ threat, so Stiles steels himself and glowers right back at him. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you didn’t hear me before. But we’re closed, so kindly see yourself out.”

The guy exhales slowly through his nose, and his pale green eyes flicker as he silently examines Stiles’ face. And then he turns around and begins to search the kitchen again.

“Dude!” Stiles yells in outrage. He grabs the first thing he sees—a frying pan hanging from a hook on the wall—and goes after his intruder. “I warned you,” he says, right before he swings so that the flat bottom of the pan connects with a dull _clang_ across the back of the guy’s skull. It doesn’t take him down, although it does create an indentation in the pan, and the guy cowers as he curses and grabs the back of his own head.

Stiles swings the pan once more, though his hand-eye coordination clearly isn’t that great because he intends to strike the guy over the head once more, except the frying pan connects with his shoulder instead. But at least it knocks the guy off his feet.

“Stop! Stop!” The guy shouts, scooting backwards on his butt as his arms come up to defend himself from further blows. “Are you insane?!” he demands once there’s a few feet of space between them.

“I warned you,” Stiles says again as he brandishes the frying pan like it’s a baseball bat. “I told you to leave.”

The guy splutters indignantly while cradling the shoulder Stiles had managed to hit. “You warned me you’d call the cops—not completely lose your shit on me with a frying pan. What the hell!”

Stiles blinks and gazes guiltily at his now dented frying pan because _oops_. “Well, you’re breaking and entering, so I have a right to protect myself and my stuff.”

The guy mouths wordlessly for a second before he shouts, “The door was open! If you didn’t want people coming in, I don’t know why you wouldn’t just _lock the door_!”

“Because that would be a fire hazard?” Stiles says like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. Because it is. It’s the only door that leads in or out of the bakery. “I figured a great big sign that says _CLOSED_ on it might get the message across instead.”

The guy looks like he’s about to fire off another retort, but then he freezes upon hearing the tinkling sound of the bells on the front door.

“Hello?” A female voice filters into the kitchen.

The guy’s eyes have gone wide and terrified, and if Stiles is honest, it’s freaking him out a little to see the sudden shift in his attitude. “Get rid of her,” the guy hisses furiously as his eyes frantically flit around the kitchen, searching for a nonexistent exit. “I’m not here,” he mumbles to Stiles, keeping his voice low. “No one’s here. Got that?”

“Is anyone in? I could use some help.” The female voice is moving closer to the kitchen, and clearly the guy can tell because he’s starting to tremble and shake apart, which does nothing to assist in his efforts to get on his feet.

Stiles points at him with the frying pan and whispers, “Stay here, and don’t touch anything.” The guy does nothing to indicate he’s heard what Stiles has said, but then again, Stiles has essentially asked him to do nothing, so he decides on a job well done and ducks into the shop front.

A blonde woman with styled wavy hair has entered his shop, and she looks like she’d been preparing to help herself behind the front counter. She’s wearing black fatigues and an olive tank, and at her side is the unmistakable bulge of a handgun. “Oh!” she cries out in surprise when her eyes land on Stiles. “I was beginning to think no one was here.”

And that’s why she was on her way to getting behind the cash register? Stiles narrows his eyes, taking an instant disliking to her. “We’re closed,” he replies carefully. “That’s why no one’s here.”

“I know. I saw the sign. I’m so sorry,” she says politely, and then she rounds the front counter anyway. Before Stiles can protest, she extends her arm and says, “Hi, I’m Kate Argent. I think you can help me.”

Stiles automatically begins to move to shake her hand, but then he realizes he’s still holding the misshapen frying pan. He notices Kate’s eyes zeroing in on the dents as he sets it down on the counter and says, “Ma’am, you’re not supposed to be back here.”

“Sorry, sorry,” she says with a nervous laugh as she raises her palms at him to show she’s not a threat. Stiles is hard pressed to believe that, though. “It’s just that I’m looking for a dangerous man who’s escaped custody,” she explains. “He was last spotted around here, and I was wondering if you’d seen him.”

Stiles purses his lips because he’s fairly certain the person she’s talking about is holed up in his kitchen right now. “What’s he look like?” Stiles asks, just to make sure.

Kate retrieves her phone from her back pocket, and after swiping across the screen a couple times, she steps closer to him and says, “Here.” Her eyes flick up to him as she adds, “His name is Derek Hale.”

Stiles takes the phone from her and hopes his eyes don’t widen too much with recognition. The picture is definitely of the guy— _Derek_ —currently hiding out in the kitchen. It’s a close-up shot of his face, and he looks sweaty and exhausted, but his blazing green eyes are absolutely livid with fury. There’s a smear of blood across the right side of his face, and even though Stiles can’t see his arms, the way his shoulder muscles are strained makes it clear his arms are restrained in some way off frame.

“Don’t let the pretty face fool you,” Kate says with a knowing look. “He’s dangerous, so any information you have on his whereabouts would be invaluable towards catching this monster.”

Stiles swallows hard. “Monster?” he echoes uncertainly. “What’d he do?”

“Something monstrous,” Kate quips. “I can’t divulge more than that. But until he’s off the streets, we’re all in danger,” she says grimly. “So, if you’ve seen him or know where he is, you should let me know.”

Stiles squirms uncomfortably under Kate’s expectant gaze. In spite of her warnings, he’s hesitant to betray Derek’s location. He doesn’t trust Kate on instinct, even though she’s conducted herself far more civilly than Derek, who’d busted into Stiles’ kitchen mere minutes ago with absolutely no explanation. At the same time, Stiles also can’t unsee the pure terror that had crossed Derek’s face when he’d first heard Kate’s voice.

“Is there a number I can call?” Stiles asks, mind made up. When Kate furrows her brow in confusion, he clarifies, “Y’know, if I see him.”

A flash of annoyance passes over Kate’s face before she schools her pretty features to appear neutral again. She finds a stray piece of parchment paper on the counter and uses a Sharpie to write out her number. “If you see him, call me,” she instructs.

Stiles tries not to seem too suspicious as he stares at the parchment paper because there’s no way that’s protocol. Shouldn’t she have a business card or something? Come to think of it, she never even flashed a badge at him.

“Now,” Kate says, shoving past Stiles and reaching out for the swinging door, “for your own safety, let me do a quick sweep of your building.”

“What? No!” Stiles desperately shouts, but he’s too late because Kate’s already in the kitchen. “No, no, no, no—!” Stiles abruptly cuts himself off when he follows her into his completely empty kitchen. _Completely empty_. Derek is nowhere to be seen.

Kate gawks at Stiles like he’s lost his mind.

“Er, health code violations,” Stiles stammers out. Then he clears his throat and says with more confidence, “Unauthorized personnel can’t be back here, and I have a lot of work I still need to get done before I open for the day. So, I really need you to leave now.”

Kate ignores him and doesn’t move, much to Stiles’ chagrin, as she scans the kitchen, seemingly empty save for kitchen appliances and baked goods. She opens a few cabinets, and she even checks inside the oven, which seems ridiculous to Stiles, although on second thought, he decides it might be a pretty good hiding place under dire circumstances.

“What’s in there?” Kate suddenly asks, gesturing left to a large silver door with a small frosted over window set in the middle of it.

Stiles hopes Kate doesn’t hear his sharp intake of breath because he suddenly realizes where Derek is hiding. “Walk-in freezer,” he supplies, doing his best to keep his panic at bay. “This building used to be a butcher shop. I use the freezer for ice cream cakes and storage now.” He hopes his demeanor conveys there’s nothing more to see here, but then Kate moves towards the silver door because she obviously thinks there _is_ more to see.

“I really have to ask you to leave,” Stiles insists, anxiously following after her. “You can’t be back here!”

He holds his breath as Kate stands on her toes and peers through the glass window for a moment. Then she steps back, apparently not having seen anything suspect, and levels Stiles with a glare. “You’ll want to be careful, being the only place around here that’s open so early.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stiles says, even though his shop isn’t actually open, but apparently that’s beside the point to people who can’t read a _CLOSED_ sign. Then he holds the swinging door for Kate, but other than that, any semblance of comity leaves him. “Get out.”

Kate rolls her eyes and saunters into the shop front. “I’ll be in touch,” she says over her shoulder, and then she’s out the front door. Stiles locks it behind her—fire hazards be damned—and watches until she rounds the corner and is out of sight. Then he grabs the frying pan from where he’d placed it on the counter and rushes back inside the kitchen. He takes a deep breath and steels himself for the confrontation that’s about to take place.

“Party’s over, _Derek_ ,” Stiles calls out, directing his voice at the walk-in freezer. He’s sure Derek’s in there, even though Kate would disagree, because there’s literally no other exit Derek could have used. The kitchen doesn’t even have any windows, and Stiles and Kate had been blocking the way to the shop front the whole time.

Stiles grips the freezer’s handle and yanks it open, shivering a little at the gust of cold air that rushes out. He strides forward, fully prepared to kick him out, but then Stiles yelps and shuffles right back out. “Oh, no. Nope!” Stiles cries, refusing to accept what he’s seen. “This is not happening!”

He doesn’t receive any sort of response to his outburst, so Stiles slowly edges back into the walk-in freezer and reluctantly peeks at Derek again.

And yep. This is definitely happening.

The door is located in one corner of the freezer, and Derek appears to have collapsed in the corner parallel to it, which is most likely why Kate wasn’t able to see him when she had peered inside. Derek is gloriously shirtless, but Stiles can’t even appreciate the view because their meet-cute is officially a meet- _gross_ , considering the jerk is gingerly prodding at an actual _hole_ in his own shoulder. It’s open and circular and red and kind of purple and bleeding and _everything_. There are spindly black lines that spider out from the wound, and Stiles swears he can see it smoking and maybe even glowing a little. Trails of blood sluggishly coil down Derek’s arm and chest, and all in all, it’s absolutely disgusting. Stiles has to look away so he doesn’t add vomit to the list of bodily fluids that have no reason for being inside his bakery.

Dropping the frying pan at the door, Stiles screws up his courage and stomps towards Derek, dutifully focusing only on the man’s face. “What is the matter with you?” he demands.

Derek’s eyes just flick towards his own shoulder, like the answer to that question is fairly obvious. And it is. But that’s not what Stiles had meant.

“You complete and utter _moron_ ,” Stiles seethes, waving his arms wildly. “You need medical attention. What would possibly compel you to seek that attention at a bakery instead of, say, at a _hospital_ , huh? Ever hear of those?”

Derek shakes his head, and Stiles notes the man looks considerably paler than he had upon first entering the bakery. “No hospital,” Derek grunts out with effort. “Too obvious.”

“Pretty sure that’s the point,” Stiles says, pushing a hand through his own hair as he begins to pace anxiously in the tight quarters. He breathes in and out for a moment, trying to calm down enough to be productive. Stiles may or may not have a fugitive bleeding out next to the ice cream cakes, and as stressful as the situation is, he knows it would be far worse if Derek dies on him. The sensible thing to do would be to call an ambulance, except it seems as though Derek has some aversion to being treated at a hospital. Stiles doesn’t doubt that aversion probably has something to do with Kate Argent.

“Please. No hospital,” Derek implores once more, almost like he can read Stiles’ mind. Stiles watches as Derek shifts strangely against the icy wall at his back, and it takes a minute before he realizes Derek is trying to use the wall as leverage to get on his feet again.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What do you think you’re doing? You can’t go back out there,” Stiles says, flinging an arm towards the shop front. “You’re hurt. You need a doctor or an ambulance or something. Sit down!”

“I’ll be fine,” Derek says through gritted teeth.

“You have a bloody hole in your shoulder, and I took you out with a frying pan,” Stiles deadpans. Granted, Stiles realizes he’d most likely only been able to do so _because_ Derek has a bloody hole in his shoulder, but whatever. Derek is still stubbornly trying to get up, so Stiles decides to quit arguing with him before the guy passes out for his efforts. “Stop pretending like you’re going to march out of here on your own two feet, and tell me what I can do to help,” he says.

Derek lands on his butt with a dull _thump_ and glances up in surprise.

“What?” Stiles asks incredulously. “You don’t want an ambulance? Fine. Whatever. But you seriously didn’t think I’d let you bleed out all over the floor instead while I go about the rest of my day, did you?” The expression on Derek’s face makes Stiles realize that’s exactly what he’d been expecting, and isn’t that the most depressing thing ever? Stiles heaves a weary sigh and says, “Look, I only have a vague idea of how to disinfect that spot you’re sitting in now. I have no idea how to disinfect it if you _die_ there. So, how do we not make that happen if a hospital is out of the question?”

For a moment, it seems as though Derek’s not going to say anything, but then his wound makes itself known as pain clearly lances through his body. Derek clutches his bloody shoulder, curls in on himself, and moans miserably.

Stiles is instantly at his side. “Okay, big guy,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you on your back.” Stiles gently helps Derek ease onto the icy ground and bundles up Derek’s discarded shirt so that it can act as a pillow.

“Lighter,” Derek wheezes. And when Stiles only makes a face at him in response—because what does that even mean?—the man clarifies by mumbling, “Jacket pocket.”

Stiles rifles through Derek’s leather jacket off to the side until he comes up with a silver cigarette lighter. Then a horrible thought dawns on him. “Are you going to make me cauterize your wound?” he shrieks, immediately trying to bleach his mind of images where he brings a flame to Derek’s skin. “I mean, I know I just said I want to help. And I’m sure I seem amazingly calm and resilient right now, but unless you want to see my dinner again,” Stiles warns, trailing off.

“God, no. Just shut up and listen _,”_ Derek snaps as he twists to one side and retrieves a bullet from his pocket. He drops it into Stiles’ palm, which is when Stiles realizes the hole in Derek’s shoulder is actually a gunshot wound. “Open the bullet,” Derek commands.

Stiles stares dumbly from the bullet in his hand and back to Derek. “Come again?”

Derek huffs and tries to sit back up, but the ache in his shoulder has him slumping down instantly. He’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat and is trembling slightly. “Just open the damned bullet!” he screams impatiently.

Startled, Stiles flails and nearly drops it. “Sure,” he says feebly. “Uh. Right. Open the bullet. Obviously. That makes sense.” Except, Stiles has no idea how to do that. “Just. Um. Let me get a paring knife—?”

Derek’s hand snatches the bullet out of Stiles’, and within the blink of an eye, Derek bites down on the bullet and spits out a small piece of casing from his mouth. “Here,” Derek says, hastily but carefully handing Stiles the bullet again. The pointy end is still attached, but the flat end, while surrounded with small indentations from Derek’s teeth, is now open. “Dump out the powder, set it on fire.”

“What? No! Why?” Stiles exclaims. He knows that gunshots are like tiny little explosions that only require a spark to set off the gunpowder, and he really has no intention of blowing off his fingers with the force of a gunshot. “You’re sure this isn’t the, uh, freaky purple bullet wound talking? Because I’m pretty sure this isn’t how they do it on TV.”

Derek shuts his eyes tightly, though Stiles can’t tell if it’s from the pain or out of frustration. Probably a little of both. “Just do it!” he shouts.

“Geez, okay, all right,” Stiles says, scrambling over to where he’d abandoned his frying pan earlier. He diligently pours the gunpowder into it since the pan is ruined anyway and sets the empty shell casing aside. Before he can think too much about it, Stiles rolls his thumb across the lighter to spark a flame, and then he quickly touches the fire to the gunpowder. Immediately, a large, bright purple flame flares up out of the pan, and Stiles yanks back his hand to the safety of his chest. The flame flickers and pops like a giant sparkler, a few sparks fly out of the pan and die on the freezer floor, until gradually the flame peters out, leaving behind a smoldering pile of ash, and the pungent scent of something rotten.

Stiles uses the edge of the lighter to poke warily at the ash and scowls at the steadily growing pillar of smoke that swirls up from it. “This better not stink up my bakery,” he grouses, wrinkling his nose. “Okay, now what?” He turns to Derek for the next set of grumbled instructions, except the man appears to have passed out.

Panic courses through Stiles as he crawls over and shakes Derek’s unwounded shoulder. “Derek?” When that doesn’t get him a response, Stiles lightly slaps his cheeks a couple times. “Come on, man. Don’t do this to me. Wake up!”

Derek’s head only lolls from side to side, and other than a shallow breath that causes his chest to rise and fall, he does not move.

“At least you’re not dead,” Stiles mutters to himself. “Think, Stiles. Think!” His eyes flick restlessly between Derek, his wound, and the dented frying pan until finally settling on the smoke still floating off the small mound of ash. “You must’ve had me burn this stuff for a reason,” Stiles says as he retrieves the pan. He leans close to Derek and uses a hand to waft the smoke into the man’s face. The fumes have a sharp smell that bothers Stiles’ sinuses, so he ventures a guess it might have some effect on Derek’s condition. Unfortunately, after a minute or so of no reaction, Stiles concludes he’s wrong.

He sets the pan on the ground and frowns. “Maybe you’re supposed to eat it?” Stiles thinks aloud. Carefully, he opens Derek’s mouth and sprinkles a pinch of the ash onto his tongue, but nothing happens past the ash staying stuck to Derek’s tongue and getting saturated with saliva. Curious, Stiles places a pinch of ash on his own tongue and promptly spits it out in a fit of coughing. The ash tastes like ash. _Shocker_.

“Screw it. I so don’t have time for this mental trauma, and I definitely don’t have the funds to pay for all the therapy I’m going to need if you die,” Stiles says to Derek’s unconscious form. When Derek still doesn’t respond, Stiles digs his phone out of his back pocket and dials 911, dismissing Derek’s adamant refusal to seek actual medical assistance. He decides the man automatically forfeited any say in the matter upon losing consciousness. Besides, it’s not like Stiles didn’t try it his way.

The phone only rings once before a female voice answers. “ _911, please state your emergency._ ”

“Um, I’m at Claudia’s Bakery,” Stiles says, inexplicably more panicked upon hearing the almost robotic state of calm in the 911 operator’s voice. “Someone’s been shot. And he’s unconscious—he just passed out like two minutes ago? And I’m not really sure what to do, but we need an ambulance.”

“ _Sir, are you in any danger?_ ”

“What?” Stiles asks, puzzled. “No, I said someone _else_ has been shot.”

Patiently, the operator says, “ _Is the assailant still in the building? Was this an accidental shooting?_ ”

“Oh. Um, no. I mean, I don’t know. I mean, I’m safe. We’re safe.” Stiles pauses to reconsider. “Well, I’m safe. I’m not hurt, but my—” Stiles glances down at Derek, wondering what to call him, considering he’s a virtual stranger. “Uh. My acquaintance has been shot.” Stiles cringes and makes a face because that just sounds like a euphemism for any number of ridiculous things.

Thankfully, the 911 operator doesn’t comment on it. “ _Have you applied pressure to the wound?_ ” she asks.

Stiles swears loudly at himself for not having done so sooner. “No, hang on,” Stiles says. He puts his phone on speaker and sets it on the ground. Then he undoes his apron, balls it up, and presses the fabric down onto Derek’s shoulder. The man groans a little, and Stiles swears the black lines twisting out of the gunshot wound are now clawing further down Derek’s arm and chest. “Um, I think the bullet hole is infected.”

“ _Don’t worry about that for now. Maintain pressure. I have an ambulance eight minutes out,_ ” the operator replies, cool as ever. “ _If you’re able, unlock your door so the paramedics can come in, and please stay on the line until they arrive._ ”

“Pressure, door, on the line. Got it,” Stiles recites, already feeling more at ease with a clear plan in mind. He balances the frying pan atop his balled up apron to weigh the cloth down for the time being. It’s by no means effective, but he only needs it to hold until he can come back to properly apply pressure to Derek’s wound. With one last glance at the unconscious man, Stiles picks up his cellphone and dashes out the walk-in freezer, through the kitchen, and into the shop front. The clear glass windows there reveal the street lamps outside are still on, and only a few cars are traveling on the roads so far. Most of the other businesses surrounding Stiles’ are still closed, and not a single pedestrian is in sight.

With a flick of his wrist, Stiles unlocks the door, and the moment that’s done, an absolutely blood-curdling scream rips through the bakery. Stiles loses his grip on his cellphone when he instinctively hunkers down, like the noise is something he could hide from. Then the scream transitions into what could only be described as a howl, and Stiles realizes the sound is coming from the walk-in freezer. “What the hell?” Stiles wonders aloud. He’d just left Derek half dead back there, and now he’s auditioning for the freakin’ opera!

“ _Sir? Sir!_ ” The 911 operator’s tinny voice calls out when all the yelling dies down for a few seconds. “ _Is everything all right?_ ” She asks, her composure slipping the slightest bit. “ _What’s_ —”

Another roar from Derek has Stiles lunging forward, cellphone left forgotten on the ground. He slides over the front counter, scrambles back into the kitchen, and skids to a horrified halt once he’s in the walk-in freezer again. Derek’s clutching his wounded shoulder with one hand, while he writhes on the icy freezer floor, eyes squeezed shut in obvious agony if his literal growls are anything to go by.

“Stop moving! Stay still!” Stiles demands, rushing to kneel at Derek’s side. He wraps his hands around Derek’s upper arms and tries to push him back to the floor with limited success. “It’ll be okay, you’re gonna be fine! I called an ambulance!” he yells over Derek’s screaming. “But until it gets here you’ve gotta—”

“You _what_?” Derek shouts, lurching up from the ground and into a seated position, almost knocking into Stiles. Then he opens his eyes, ostensibly to glare at Stiles’ inability to follow instructions, except Derek’s eyes glow an eerie, icy blue before fading back to their regular pale green color.

Stiles yelps in shock and scoots out of the way since his immediate thought had been _laser eyes_. Except, laser eyes aren’t a thing because the real world isn’t a comic book, and that had obviously been a trick of the light. Never mind that the freezer only contains minimal lighting.

“Dammit,” Derek curses as he shakes his head slightly, as if to clear it, and then easily rolls onto his feet, apparently finished screaming bloody murder. He briefly scowls at Stiles, then turns around to snatch his shirt from the floor. “I told you not to call for an ambulance. What part of that was a difficult concept to grasp?”

Stiles gapes at Derek’s muscled back, which features what looks like a three-pronged Celtic-style swirl of some kind centered below his shoulder blades. “It looked like you were dying,” Stiles says in his defense, starting out meek but gaining confidence as he continues. “You were dying, and all you’d told me to do was some weird hoodoo-voodoo thing with a bullet—” Stiles cuts himself off when he suddenly takes in the healthy flush all over Derek’s bared skin. The man is no longer clammy or pale; from Stiles’ angle, he appears to be the picture of perfect health.

Before Derek can slip his shirt back on, Stiles’ hand shoots through the air and latches onto Derek’s arm to spin him around. “Okay, _what_!” Stiles squawks, eyes zeroing in on the tan, blood-stained, yet _completely healed_ skin of Derek’s previously wounded shoulder. “There was a bullet hole here five minutes ago,” Stiles says, poking a finger into Derek’s shoulder, in spite of the man trying to bat his hand away. “And there were black squiggly lines all along here,” Stiles says, trailing his fingers down Derek’s arm and chest.

“Get your hands off me,” Derek says in a low, growly voice.

Stiles just squints his eyes and leans in closer to get a better look. There are a sparse few tiny black dots stuck to the dried blood on Derek’s shoulder, and it takes a second for Stiles to identify them. “You put the gunpowder ash in your wound,” he marvels, quickly glancing at the empty frying pan on the ground to confirm his suspicion. “Pretty sure that’s not how doctors would advise treating bullet wounds.” Derek purposefully avoids Stiles’ searching gaze. “What _are_ you?”

Derek shoves Stiles away at that, though only hard enough to put some space between them. Then he slips his shirt back on, which sports a large red bloodstain and small hole at one shoulder, and shrugs on his leather jacket as well. Looking at him now, no one would say the man had been at death’s door only minutes ago.

Derek scans the area around him, like he’s trying to determine if he’s forgotten anything. He says, “Sorry you got my blood on your apron.” And then the jerk just strolls out of the freezer.

Stiles gawks at Derek’s retreating form, then at the apron, and then back to Derek again. “Hey, wait!” Stiles shouts, jogging after Derek and catching his shoulder right before they can exit into the shop front. “You can’t just leave.”

Derek turns around, folds his arms across his broad chest, and stares pointedly at Stiles’ hand until Stiles releases his shoulder. “I _can_ leave, and I _am_ leaving,” he says, tilting his head to the side, like he’s listening for something.

“But I called 911. I called an ambulance,” Stiles insists. “I said someone had been shot. What am I supposed to do when they show up, and no one needs medical attention?”

Derek appears to study him for a moment, eyes flickering over Stiles’ face, much like they had earlier that morning. Then his lips quirk up the slightest bit in a handsome smirk as he says, “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Stiles splutters for a moment, caught off guard. “Not helpful,” he says. “I mean, I can’t just pour strawberry jam all down my front and tell them false alarm. I know some people are deathly allergic to strawberries and all, but there’s no way that would hold up once they replay the 911 recording—” Stiles’ eyes widen in horror. “ _Shit_!” he curses, and then immediately lowers his voice. “I’ve still got the 911 lady on the phone out there!” He groans in despair and runs his hands down his face. “They’re gonna make a _48 Hours_ special about this,” he says, anxiously glancing at Derek and nodding with certainty. “They’ll say I’m like that guy from _Choke_ by Chuck Palahniuk, except replace the Heimlich with strawberry jam.”

“What?” Derek furrows his brow in confusion, and then he puts up a hand to stop Stiles from further clarifying his ridiculous tangent just as the faint, whining sound of sirens begins to filter in from the distance. “I have an idea,” he says, then walks back into the freezer and returns with Stiles’ bloodied apron.

“Oh, gross,” Stiles wheezes, swallowing down his nausea while resolving not to look at the blood soaked into the fabric. “No one is going to believe that’s strawberry jam.”

Derek ignores the remark and takes a knee next to the cabinet where the mixing bowls are stored. Stiles edges closer, and it appears as though Derek is threading one end of the apron through a couple of the handles that are screwed into the cabinet doors. Derek’s fingers move hurriedly but efficiently, like he knows what he’s doing. “Give me a hand, will you?”

Stiles crouches down beside him. “What are you—”

Before Stiles can finish his question, Derek grabs Stiles’ wrists and quickly wraps the apron strings around them in an intricate series of over and under weaving patterns. When Stiles realizes what’s happening, he tugs furiously at his wrists, horrified to discover he can’t get free. “What the hell are you doing?” he demands, doing a poor job of tamping down on his mounting panic. “This is not what it means to give someone a hand!”

“Quit pulling,” Derek scolds. “You’ll give yourself bruises.”

Stiles gapes at him incredulously, and in that moment, he realizes how stupid he’s been. Sure, Stiles had helped Derek because he hadn’t trusted Kate Argent—there’s just something off about her—but that didn’t mean Stiles had to trust Derek by default instead. For all Stiles knows, Derek Hale really is a dangerous criminal, and Stiles has been getting chummy with the guy all morning.

“Let! Me! Go!” Stiles shouts, punctuating each word with a vicious yank at his bound hands. But his self-preservation instincts have kicked in too late, and in spite of his best efforts to free himself, Stiles remains securely fastened to the cabinet handles. His struggling only turns the palms of his hands red, and Stiles feels a little queasy when he realizes some of that red is from Derek’s blood.

“Go ahead and tell them whatever you want,” Derek says as he ties the apron strings in a final knot and stands up. “Blame me.”

“Well, of course I’m going to blame you, you asshole!” Stiles retorts with a tug at his wrists for emphasis.

Derek doesn’t even have the good sense to look apologetic. All he says is, “Keep your doors locked,” just loud enough to be heard over the wailing sirens surely turning down the road, judging by their volume.

Stiles frowns at him and points out, “You’d be dead if I’d had my door locked.”

Derek makes a noncommittal grunt, like he doesn’t quite want to believe that truth. With one last nod directed at Stiles, Derek pushes through the swinging door, and a short moment later, Stiles strains his hearing and catches the light, jingling sound of the bells above the front door as Derek leaves him behind.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever felt more humiliated before in his life. A pair of paramedics rush into his kitchen barely a minute after Derek’s hasty departure, and one of them immediately kneels next to Stiles, hands running over his body to make sure Stiles isn’t injured anywhere. Stiles would have batted the man’s hands away if his own weren’t still bound firmly to the cabinet doors. Meanwhile, the other paramedic busily searches the bakery for a gunshot victim that is no longer there.

“It’s just me!” Stiles finally shouts, feeling even more embarrassed for drawing attention to himself. He’d called 911 and reported a gunshot victim, and paramedics had rushed to the scene only to find a grown man tied to a pair of cabinet doors with his own apron. How is he supposed to explain this to the paramedics, let alone to the cops who have just walked in, without sounding like a lunatic?

“Where’s the—” one of the paramedics begins.

“It’s just me,” Stiles says again, wilting a little. “There was a guy, but he left.”

“He left?” The paramedic echoes, perplexed.

Stiles grimaces and amends, “He got away.”

The paramedic next to Stiles produces a pair of scissors from his kit and cuts Stiles’ hands free, effectively ruining a perfectly good apron. Well, no. It was saturated with Derek’s blood. It was going to be _evidence_ now. But evidence of what?

“Greenberg!” A man in a police uniform hollers across the kitchen. “Collect some samples from the freezer!” Then he turns his weasel-like face to Stiles and says, “You can call me Deputy Finstock! While my partner is off doing that, and while Danny here patches you up, I’m going to ask you a few questions!” Finstock shouts at Stiles, causing him to flinch back. Stiles thinks that’s just the guy’s default volume. “That seem like a good game plan to you?”

Stiles spares Danny a look as the paramedic applies what smells like aloe across the chafing surrounding Stiles’ wrists. “Um. Yeah. Sure. I guess,” he says, feeling his face heat up.

Finstock takes a knee and frowns at the expression on Stiles’ face. “You can always come down to the station to give us your statement later. I’m sure the sheriff would be interested in talking to you about this.”

And it’s that suggestion that makes a shiver run down Stiles’ spine. Maybe Derek Hale really is a huge criminal or something. That’s the only reason Stiles can fathom as to why the sheriff would be interested in a glorified breaking and entering. And really, it was just _entering_ since Stiles’ door had been unlocked. Why would the sheriff care about talking to him about someone _entering_ his bakery?

Except, Stiles hasn’t actually mentioned Derek to anyone yet, so never mind.

“Whatever you’re thinking about, you should probably stop. You look like you’re about to break something,” Finstock remarks, looking at Stiles expectantly. “C’mon, sport. Here or at the station. But we’re going to need a statement.”

Stiles shakes his head as if to clear it. “Let’s just get this out of the way now,” he replies sullenly. His entire morning is wrecked, and at the very least, he knows he needs to find the time to make three-dozen cupcakes for the Carver twins’ birthday party, which he’s catering later that afternoon. Even if he wanted to, he doesn’t have time to swing by the police station.

So, Stiles recounts the way Derek had _entered_ his bakery, followed soon after by Kate Argent, who clearly had Derek spooked, so maybe there’s a connection between the two. Finstock doesn’t appear to recognize either name, though he radios in to ask dispatch to get a search started on Kate Argent since Stiles says she’d implied she was some sort of law enforcement authority. Stiles mentions he assaulted Derek with a frying pan, and in spite of that, Derek hadn’t actually attacked him in return and had only tied Stiles’ wrists to the cabinet doors when he heard an ambulance was on the way.

When Stiles finishes his story, Finstock takes a moment to glance over his notes while Danny packs up his kit and prepares to leave. “You’re sure you’ve never seen this Derek Hale character before?” Finstock asks.

Stiles shakes his head. “No. Don’t think so.”

Finstock cranes his neck back and runs his eyes along the ceiling. “This place wired with cameras?”

“No,” Stiles mumbles, furiously willing his face not to flush in embarrassment.

“No?” Finstock repeats in surprise.

“No, okay?” Stiles huffs. “It just didn’t seem like a good investment. I mean, who has ever heard of a bakery being robbed?”

Finstock waves his arms around in an effort to gesture at the current state of Stiles’ bakery.

“I wasn’t robbed!” Stiles exclaims defensively.

“Uh huh,” Finstock mutters, clearly unimpressed. “Yet here we are, where some camera footage would be really helpful right about now.”

Stiles decides he likes it better when the deputy is brash and annoying. He can’t deal with snide remarks about his incompetency right now. But seriously, has there _ever_ been a single reported case of a dangerous crime committed at a bakery? No!

“You have any reason someone might be holding a grudge against you? Maybe they set Hale on you?” Finstock suggests, making Stiles focus on the situation at hand once more. “Doesn’t seem as though this Hale guy has a record, but the best of ‘em don’t. Until they do, that is!” The deputy chuckles to himself, and Danny the paramedic rolls his eyes.

“Well, I wasn’t actually attacked,” Stiles replies slowly. “Derek was shot, and I guess he came here for help.”  
  
“To a bakery?” Finstock looks around dubiously. “Unlikely.”

“Okay, but I still wasn’t attacked,” Stiles counters. “I mean, if anything, I’m the one who attacked him. I guess he was just scared or something.”

Finstock doesn’t look convinced. “We’re trying to help you here, Bilinski—”

“ _St_ ilinski,” Stiles corrects.

“That’s what I said. We’re trying to help you here,” Finstock continues impatiently. “There’s no shame in admitting you were threatened, burgled, and held hostage at gunpoint in your own place of business. Guys like you keep guys like us in business,” Finstock says, proudly gesturing to himself and to Danny. To his credit, Danny has the decency to look chagrined at Finstock’s rationalizing of the situation.

Stiles splutters for a moment, eyes darting between them. “Seriously, like, almost none of what you just said actually happened, deputy. What are you even writing in your notepad?” Stiles demands.

Finstock ignores him and speaks into the radio clipped on his shoulder. “Yeah, Darla? I need you to put out an APB on a Derek Hale. Check with hospitals, too. Guy’s been shot.”

Stiles is about to continue arguing with the officer, but then his eyes go wide with sudden realization. Yes, Derek had been shot, but he’s not going to be at a hospital. His gunshot wound had healed. _Magically_. Stiles blames a completely understandable need to repress that memory for why he’s only now thinking of the fact. Because how on earth is magic real?! And how the hell is he supposed to communicate this new reality to Finstock? Laser eyes and magical healing qualities don’t belong within the realm of rational thought!

“You all right, son?”

Stiles cringes, and he’s not sure why. “Yeah. I mean, no. I mean—he’s not going to be at a hospital.” In an effort to provide an explanation that will make sense, Stiles adds, “He really didn’t look too bad when he left. I think he’ll be fine.”

“You said the guy had been shot.” Finstock holds up a baggie containing the apron soaked with Derek’s blood. “With the amount of blood only on this thing, buddy-boy is gonna need some medical attention real soon if he doesn’t wanna meet death on a blood-loss canoe!”

“What?” Stiles asks incredulously, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Don’t worry about it!” Finstock says, smacking Stiles on the shoulder and giving him a good-natured grin. “We’ll catch him. Let’s head out, people!”

The command immediately elicits a flurry of movement from everyone in the room, and Stiles stands back to watch as they all file out of his bakery until eventually, he’s alone once more.

With a sigh, Stiles does his best to get his kitchen back to functioning order. Aside from Derek’s little corner of the freezer, there actually isn’t much mess to clean up, all things considered. The kitchen is in some disarray from his scuffle with Derek and from cops and paramedics moving things around, but he quickly gets everything put away so he can get started on the day’s orders. More importantly, he hopes getting back to his regular routine will help to put the crazy events of the morning far from his mind.

But that’s easier said than done. It seems the harder Stiles tries not to think about everything that happened in his kitchen that morning, the more prominent those events become in his mind’s eye. It’s distracting, to say the least. Evidently, simply because he doesn’t want to think about something doesn’t mean he can stop feeling its effects.

Stiles decides it’s because there are two levels of shock warring for control over his sanity. First, he’s still grappling with the fact that his encounter with Derek—and even Kate—could have ended far worse. Stiles is fully aware that other people might not have been as lucky as him, especially considering Derek and Kate are obviously playing a game of cat-and-mouse not sanctioned by any official body of law enforcement. They hadn’t seemed like criminals or gang members, either. Stiles isn’t sure what they seemed like. He really can’t compare the situation to anything he’s read in books or seen on television. But the hunted look in Derek’s eyes makes Stiles certain of one thing: even if she doesn’t look it, Kate Argent is dangerous.

So, Stiles is still mildly freaked out over the situation he survived. Rather, he didn’t actually have to survive through much; he got off easy, all things considered. But he’s freaked out by how horrible things _could have_ gone.

And the second reason he’s having difficulties not losing his mind?

Magic.

_Magic!_

Stiles has repeatedly run through his memories of Derek’s shoulder literally healing itself from an actual _bullet wound_. He had touched it before and after it healed, and there was definitely something unnatural about the process. Of course, the fact that Derek’s shoulder had healed isn’t technically magic. Stiles realizes ordinary people can heal from bullet wounds, too. But not within _seconds_ , and certainly not to the point where the wound doesn’t even leave behind a scar. If that isn’t magic, then what is it? And how does Stiles even Google a question like that and get any real search results?

One thing is for certain: something about Derek Hale just doesn’t add up.

Stiles is deep in thought as he works, piping glossy black icing onto red M&M’s to turn them into ladybugs for the Carver twins’ cupcakes. It’s taking longer than usual for him to complete the task because his hands keep shaking, and Stiles doesn’t know why. Nothing even happened to him. He’s perfectly fine. So, why are—

“ _STILES!_ ”

Stiles shrieks in alarm at the unexpected shout, and he squeezes the frosting bag on reflex, cursing as a giant glob of black icing swallows his fingers and the red M&M he’d been working on. “Erica, what the hell!” he yells in frustration as he tries to unbend his body from the way it’s suddenly hunched over, half cowering.

A moment later, Erica bursts into the kitchen, her wild blonde curls framing her face like a lion’s mane. “I heard what happened. Are you okay?” she asks breathlessly. “Are you hurt?” Erica settles her hands on Stiles’ shoulders and crouches slightly to get a better look at him, completely unbothered by the mess of black frosting all over his hands. “Boyd said there was an ambulance,” she explains.

Stiles frowns a little at that. How does Erica’s boyfriend already know about the morning’s events? As far as he knows, Boyd doesn’t work anywhere near the bakery, and none of the other businesses nearby were open at the time, so there wouldn’t have been any reason for him to be in the area.

“Stiles. Hey. C’mon!” Erica snaps. “Talk to me!”

Stiles shrugs Erica’s hands off him, resolving to confront Boyd about this later. “I don’t know what you heard, but I’m fine. Obviously. It was nothing,” he says as he slops off the excess icing covering his fingers into the trash.

“There was an _ambulance_ ,” Erica says emphatically. “How is anything about that fine?”

“Okay, so maybe there was a small incident,” Stiles allows while he washes his hands. “There was a guy, and there was this whole _thing_ , and my apron is in evidence or whatever, but I’m going to get a new one even if they want to give it back. But I promise I’m fine,” he persists, hoping it suffices as an explanation without inviting more questions.

“There was a guy—?” Erica’s eyes widen with concern when she spots the red sores around Stiles’ wrists. “What are these?” she demands, carefully pulling one of Stiles’ hands out from under the faucet. “Did this _guy_ do that to you? Did the police catch him?”

“No. He sort of tied me up, and definitely not in the fun way,” Stiles says, grimacing in anticipation of her reaction.

“ _What_?” Erica all but roars. “Tell me what happened. Tell me right now!”

“I swear it’s not as bad as it looks,” Stiles quickly assures her. “The ambulance wasn’t even for me. It was for the guy cuz he was shot. Except he swanned off like Tuxedo Mask in a leather jacket or whatever, and don’t even get me started on that. The cops didn’t catch the guy, but they’ve got his name—Derek Hale. So, it’ll be fine. I’m sure they’ll get him soon.”

“ _Derek Hale?_ ” Erica repeats in surprise.

“Uh, yeah?” Stiles gently plucks his hand out of Erica’s grasp. “You say his name like you know him or something,” he remarks as he dries his hands on a rag.

Erica ignores his comment. “What was he doing here? What happened? Did he say anything?”

“I didn’t say he was a mime. Of course he said stuff,” Stiles replies, giving her a strange look. “Just so you know, you’re being really weird,” he informs her. “But I’ll overlook that if you could finish up the ladybugs while I pipe some grass onto these cupcakes.”

Erica keeps shooting worried glances at Stiles, and it’s really freaking him out since it’s such a deviation from her normally bubbly, teasing personality. But at least she’s working on the ladybugs while she stares occasionally at Stiles, so he decides he can deal with that.

“You’re feeling okay, though, right?” Erica asks after a few minutes of working in silence. “You don’t feel, I dunno, weird or anything?”

“Feeling weirder by the second, but only because of this conversation,” Stiles quips while measuring out powdered sugar. “Are _you_ feeling okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” Erica says, waving off his questioning. “But you’re feeling normal, right?”

“I guess,” Stiles says warily before turning on a hand mixer to whip up a batch of green buttercream frosting. The noise from the mixer also keeps Erica from mother-henning him for a bit, so Stiles might overbeat the frosting just a tad, if he’s being completely honest. Eventually, he loads the buttercream into a frosting bag attached to a silver tip that resembles a thimble and starts piping what looks like green grass atop the freshly cooled chocolate cupcakes on the counter. When Erica finishes creating all her ladybugs, she scoots closer to Stiles and starts placing two M&M ladybugs on each grass-covered cupcake, and before long, she’s caught up to Stiles and has to wait while he finishes covering a cupcake with frosting before she can adorn it with ladybugs.

“So,” Erica drawls, doing a poor job of feigning casual interest, “Derek’s okay, right? You said he was shot. It wasn’t, like, serious or anything, right?”

Stiles sighs because he’s honestly unsure of how to answer that question. Outside of television and movies, in Stiles’ opinion, all gunshot wounds are serious. But Derek’s wound had healed, so a nonexistent gunshot wound can’t be all that serious. Except, he can’t tell that to Erica.

“Stiles?” she says, a tinge of worry creeping into her voice. “He _is_ okay, right?”

“He was fine when he left,” Stiles says. He resolves that’s true enough, even if he’s excluding significant details about what had happened.

Erica relaxes visibly. “I wonder who could’ve shot him,” she murmurs.

“I know, right?” Stiles says, handing her one more finished cupcake as he picks up another to pipe on some grass. “Like, who even gets shot at ass o’clock in the morning? People in movies get shot in the dead of night, and in abandoned alleyways and stuff. No one ever gets shot for breakfast.”

Erica gives him a withering glare. “I realize you don’t actually have a life, but real life isn’t supposed to be like the movies. You’re aware of that, right?”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Stiles replies as he rolls his eyes. “Although, I think I actually have an idea of who shot him.” Erica’s eyebrows rise slightly with interest. “Shortly after Derek barged in, some lady named Kate Argent followed after him. She was dressed like Lara Croft or something, and I think she wanted me to believe she was a cop or whatever cuz she told me to call her if I found Derek, only the actual cops clearly had no idea who she was. And, I mean, I don’t really know anything about cops, but I dunno, man. There was just something off about her.”

Stiles finishes the cupcake he’s working on and picks up another. “So anyway, I want you to be careful when you’re going to and from work, okay?” He finally glances up at Erica and is startled to note her ashen expression. “Whoa. Hey. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry over,” he adds quickly, smiling at her reassuringly. “You know I’m hyper vigilant, and like you said, this is real life—not the movies. Logically, it wouldn’t make sense for them to come back to the bakery, so they probably won’t,” Stiles reasons. “But it can’t hurt to be careful with all these unsavory characters running around. That’s all I’m saying.”

Erica simply cracks a smile and laughs after Stiles finishes his spiel.

“What?” Stiles scoffs, more confused than affronted.

“Nothing,” Erica replies with a shrug of her shoulders. “You just remind me of someone I used to know.”

Stiles cocks an eyebrow at her, but Erica switches topics before he can say anything in response to that. “So, you’re not catering the event this afternoon alone, are you?” she asks, scrutinizing him carefully. “I could come with you. Or maybe Boyd’s free—”

“Boyd doesn’t even work here,” Stiles cuts in, looking at her like she’s lost it.

“He won’t mind. I can get him to do it,” Erica assures.

“Okay, stop,” Stiles says, waiting for Erica to quit making horrible suggestions. “It’s a birthday party for twin eight-year-olds,” he deadpans. “The most danger I’ll be in is being pawed at by soccer moms and anklebiters for two completely different reasons,” Stiles says with a grin. Sometimes there are soccer dads too, which always makes things more interesting. “I’ve catered events alone before,” he reminds her. “It’ll be fine.”

Erica frowns hard, clearly unimpressed with Stiles’ nonchalance. Finally, she jabs a finger into his arm and says, “You call me the second anything weird happens to you, okay? Anything at all.”

“Ow!” Stiles swats her hand away and grumbles under his breath, “As long as you call the second Erica returns to her body.”

“ _Stiles_!”

“Yes, okay, _fine_. I’ll call you if anything ‘weird’ happens,” Stiles says, using his fingers to hook air quotes around the word ‘weird.’ “I’ll finish up the rest of the cupcakes. Can you start on some snickerdoodles? I’m thinking extra cookies and muffins for the morning rush since we’re behind schedule, and there’s no way we can do anything else but the icebox pies we’ve already got prepared.”

Erica gives him another firm onceover before she nods and turns around to start on the cookies. Stiles tries his best not to fret over how Erica’s suddenly worried about everything. He decides it’s most likely nothing. The morning has been stressful enough, and Erica’s probably responding the same way Stiles had initially reacted. He’s lucky something far worse hadn’t happened, and Erica is ostensibly dealing with the same realization.

Stiles nods to himself, certain that’s what it is. He’s convinced himself so well, in fact, that he’s apologizing to a customer for the lack of apple pie this morning by making a lame joke about bakery elves when he remembers the other thing that had been niggling at the back of his mind.

Magic.

Not _real_ magic, of course. Because magic isn’t real. But something weird _is_ happening. Something weird and unexplainable. And he knows he promised Erica he’d tell her about anything weird, but she’d also reprimanded him for his apparent detachment from real life. And what confirms that detachment better than some fantastical tale about a freakin’ Adonis with laser eyes and magical healing capabilities?

No, he can’t tell Erica. Not yet, anyway. Really, he can’t tell anyone because who would believe him? Frankly, he doesn’t even want to believe himself. But while Stiles is a huge fan of ignoring a problem until eventually it goes away, he doesn’t do denial. He knows what he saw, and he plans to figure out what’s going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Fun fact:** Stiles makes a lot of food in this fic, and every item is something I once made when I had my own baking business. [Here](http://sweets-and-treats.net/gallery/poohcake01.jpg) is the "over the hill" Winnie the Pooh cake from chapter 1, and [here](http://sweets-and-treats.net/gallery/cupcakes09.jpg) are the ladybug cupcakes from chapter 2. :)


	3. Chapter 3

The Carver twins’ birthday party goes off without a hitch, not that Stiles had any doubts. He’s catered hundreds of events in the past with no problems at all, so why should one completely random invasion-slash-semi-assault change that?

But once Stiles returns to the bakery later that evening, where said completely random invasion-slash-semi-assault actually occurred, he realizes catering an event _outside_ his bakery isn’t the problem. Derek Hale and Kate Argent didn’t ambush him with their freaky game of cat-and-mouse at the Carver twins’ birthday party or anywhere else he’s catered an event. They ambushed him here, in his shop, and now Stiles has a serious case of the heebie-jeebies. The front counter isn’t just the front counter—it’s where Kate hassled him about Derek. The pots and pans remind him of his tussle with Derek, the cabinets of the way he’d been restrained, and when Stiles looks to the freezer, he gags a little remembering all that blood.

“Okay, no. Quit thinking about it. Stop obsessing,” Stiles admonishes himself as he double-checks the locks on the door and peeks through the blinds at an empty parking lot. “Everything is fine now. It was a freak incident, and statistically speaking, this will never happen to me again.” Stiles pauses upon making that realization. Because it’s true. It’s not like criminals—or whatever Derek and Kate are—make it a habit to terrorize the same place over and over again. _Statistically_ , Stiles is good to go for the rest of his life—forget the fact that he doesn’t even know what statistics he’s talking about. But it makes sense. It’ll be someone else’s turn next, and that will suck for whoever it is, but that’s not on Stiles.

“It’s like jury duty,” Stiles rationalizes as he nods emphatically to himself. He pointedly ignores how it’s no one’s civic duty to suffer through a home invasion and, instead, gathers the ingredients for everything he needs to make for the morning rush tomorrow. He begins by forming a dough for mini brioche buns and sets it aside to rise, and then he makes dough for shortbread cookies, which needs to chill for half an hour in the refrigerator.

Usually when Stiles bakes in the kitchen, he tries to plan tasks strategically so that he has things to do while he waits for dough to rise or cookies and cakes to bake. He can barely afford to pay Erica for her part-time hours, so it’s just him in the kitchen doing prep work every night, meaning Stiles really needs to make good use of his time if he hopes to schedule in a handful of hours for sleep as well. Regardless, he can never entirely eliminate little pockets of time where he has nothing to do. Most nights, he uses that time to eat a quick dinner, or balance the books, or sketch out plans for custom cake orders.

But Stiles doesn’t have any custom orders that need his immediate attention, and he decides the books can wait. So, while things are rising and chilling, Stiles devours a sandwich for dinner, and then he fires up his laptop and points the browser to Google because he needs to figure out what’s up with Derek Hale.

It’s not even about the break-in anymore. Stiles is still shaken by it, but he’s processing the best he can. However, Derek’s glowing blue eyes and unnatural healing abilities are things he simply can’t comprehend. Erica always jokes that Stiles spends too much time stuck in his own head, but he’s sane enough to know something isn’t right. He had touched Derek’s skin and blood, felt the warmth of his body heat. The guy is human because, well, it’s not like he’s a transformer robot or something instead. People are just people! But Derek is nothing like anyone Stiles has ever encountered.

“Derek Hale,” Stiles says under his breath as he types the man’s name into Google and executes the search. A moment later, the first page of search results loads, and Stiles feels his eyes widen in surprise. “Holy shit,” he curses softly. Every link is about a tragic house fire that claimed the lives of twelve people. He’s not sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. With a morbid sense of curiosity, he clicks the first link to find out more.

By the time Stiles is rolling out the chilled shortbread cookie dough, he has learned the house fire killed nearly all of Derek’s family, sparing only Derek, his sister Laura Hale, and his uncle Peter Hale. Worse, an update to the article lists none other than Kate Argent as responsible for setting the fire that killed the Hales. Evidently, Stiles’ initial read on her was completely accurate, and it makes him sick to his stomach that a person could do something so horrible on purpose. Stiles’ heart aches for Derek’s loss. Losing family is hard—Stiles knows from personal experience—but having _everyone_ taken away at once seems unimaginable.

Now he knows the connection linking Derek and Kate and can understand why there’s animosity between the two. Stiles can’t fathom why Kate is such a monster, and perhaps questions like that simply don’t have answers. But she’s obviously still after Derek for whatever reason, since killing his entire family apparently wasn’t enough.

Stiles skims through the next few pages of search results, wading mostly through other articles about the fire, but he doesn’t find much else, and certainly nothing published recently. A handful of articles clearly published while Derek was still in high school boast his performance on the lacrosse, baseball, and swim teams. Stiles can’t help but snicker when he reads Derek apparently made it into the all-region symphony orchestra one semester for his ability to play the _triangle_ of all things. But other than that, nothing seems to stick out. Derek doesn’t even appear to be on social media.

Stiles pulls himself away from the computer, then quickly slices the shortbread cookie dough into neat, finger-sized rectangles and loads a tray of them into the oven. Then, he pounds out the brioche dough again, places it in the refrigerator for the night since it’s a cold rise recipe, and returns to his laptop.

He starts a new Google search, mumbling as he types, “Kate Argent.” The search results load on the next page, and Stiles gapes at the first headline listed: _Convicted arsonist Kate Argent found dead._

“Dead?!” he shrieks, unable to keep the outburst to himself. “She looked alive this morning!” Stiles scrambles to click the link, and he clicks a few more links after that just to be sure. All the articles he peruses are from a few years ago, and several include Kate’s’ mug shot; there’s no mistaking the photo for anyone other than the woman Stiles saw in his bakery this morning.

Stiles’ immediate thought is that Kate somehow faked her own death, but then he recalls the reason he’s running these Google searches in the first place. Derek has mysterious healing abilities, and maybe Kate does as well. That would explain her not actually being dead—as much as _magic_ could ever be a rational explanation for anything, that is.

The oven timer beeps, breaking Stiles’ reverie. He retrieves the cookies that have finished baking and sets them aside to cool, and then he slides a second batch of cookies into the oven and gets back to his laptop as fast as he can.

As enlightening as it’s been to poke around Derek and Kate’s history, Stiles is no closer to figuring out what’s going on with Derek. He’s almost convinced himself the freaky blue robot eyes were a trick of the light, but the vanishing bullet wound isn’t something Stiles can overlook so easily.

Stiles purses his lips as he thinks of useful search terms. “Burning gunpowder,” he mutters as he types, pausing to add a comma, “bullet wound treatment.” The search results this time aren’t instantly helpful, featuring a mix of links either about scenes from television and films or about medical treatment for bullet wounds. Stiles thinks he’s being efficient by skipping all the fandom links, but when he accidentally clicks on a _Rambo_ fan page, he learns that in a pinch, gunpowder actually _can_ be sprinkled over a bullet wound and lit on fire to cauterize it. Evidently, it’s an old army trick.

While that’s fascinating information, it’s not exactly helpful to Stiles. Derek didn’t _just_ cauterize his wound—he healed it completely by employing a technique everyone else on the planet would use simply to staunch the bleeding until they could receive real medical attention.

Stiles thinks back to how Derek had looked while wounded inside the freezer. He was clammy and shaky, faint and pale, and there had been almost sentient black lines spidering out from the bullet wound and snaking over Derek’s shoulder, slithering down his torso and arm. And that’s when Stiles makes the horrible mistake of running a search for Derek’s symptoms, which leads to Google spitting out absolutely disgusting images of brutally infected wounds that Stiles can’t ever unsee. He closes out of the whole window and clears his cache, cookies, and Internet history so those images no longer have anything to do with his laptop. He gags slightly and reopens his Internet browser, doing his best to shake off the search disaster.

“Do some people heal faster than others?” Stiles says aloud as he types the words into Google and runs the search. It turns out some people do, though it’s based on attitude and pain tolerance. He finds the research slightly unreliable, considering most articles he comes across seem to take a mind over matter stance, and he simply can’t fathom how researchers could measure something like that accurately.

Stiles is beginning to get frustrated with his lack of progress, so he’s glad when the oven suddenly beeps to signal the second tray of cookies are done baking. He decides it’s a good time to take a break from his search and get some of his actual work done. And while his mind’s distracted, Stiles thinks maybe he’ll subconsciously realize the answers to all his questions. There’s no crime in hope, after all.

Stiles spends the next few hours focusing on his baking, getting lost in the familiarity of recipes he’s made hundreds of times in the past. He doesn’t even need to refer to his mother’s old recipe book anymore.

He finishes off the shortbread cookies by dipping them into a bowl of melted chocolate so that each cookie is half covered in chocolate. Then he prepares just the batter for muffins and scones, which he’ll ask Erica to bake when she comes in for her shift. Next, he uses the food processor to crumble day-old gingersnaps, then shapes them with his fingers into miniature crusts for single-serve fruit tarts to be assembled in the morning. He whips up a handful of coconut crème pies and leaves them in the refrigerator to set overnight, and then he ends by preparing dough and filling for sfogliatelle, which he’ll assemble and bake tomorrow.

After the day he’s had, Stiles is exhausted by the time he’s finished all the prep work for the next morning, and he’s more than ready to turn in. He hastily cleans up the kitchen but pauses right as he’s about to shut his laptop.

He didn’t think up anymore brilliant ideas regarding the mystery that is Derek Hale. Mostly, Stiles feels stupid for ever believing his Google searches would yield evidence confirming his suspicions about the guy, and he feels even stupider when he admits to himself he’d secretly been hoping to discover empirical evidence supporting—not _magic_ , exactly. Stiles knows magic isn’t real. But Derek clearly isn’t an ordinary person. And much to his chagrin, Stiles realizes he’d been hoping to come across an explanation that fell somewhere on the spectrum between the predictability of _ordinary person_ and the uncertainty of the unknown.

Stiles wants to _understand_ , but that’s ostensibly the problem. Anything that ventures into the realm of the unknown likely doesn’t operate within his current calibration for logic.

With a weary sigh, he settles on running one last search. If it leads to another dead end, he resolves not to waste one more second wondering about Derek. He will move on, and that’ll be that.

Stiles scrapes his fingers along the light dusting of stubble under his jaw while he deliberates his options. His last round of searches revealed there’s most likely nothing unusual about Derek setting the gunpowder on fire. It’s a common practice, even though Derek obviously reacted differently to it than expected. But this tells Stiles it isn’t something external that helped Derek heal—it’s something specifically about _Derek_. But he already ran a search on Derek, and Google doesn’t offer much on him outside of the fire. Except, Derek isn’t the only one who survived; his sister and uncle got out alive as well. What if it’s because they possess the same healing abilities as Derek? Perhaps it’s genetic.

Feeling energized with the prospect of a new lead, Stiles murmurs, “Laura Hale,” as he types her name and executes a new search. When the results page loads, Stiles’ hopeful mood is considerably dampened upon reading the first headline: _Mutilated remains of body identified, victim’s brother arrested._ The snippet of text beneath the linked headline features Laura’s name in bold type, confirming she’s the murder victim.

A feeling of dread settles in the pit of Stiles’ stomach. _Victim’s brother arrested_? The article is only a few years old, published long after the Hale fire. Does that mean Derek killed Laura, his own sister? Stiles feels positively sick at the thought, but he clicks the link anyway, curiosity taking the place of his previous exhaustion.

“Early Tuesday afternoon, the Beacon Hills Police Department recovered the lower half of an unidentified body dumped in the Beacon Hills Preserve,” Stiles reads under his breath, doing his best not to imagine precisely how someone might slice a body in half. “Late last night, two minors stumbled across the upper half of the body. The police department has issued a statement identifying the victim as Laura Hale, 28. The victim’s brother, Derek Hale, 22, has been taken into custody for questioning as various witnesses place the younger Hale in or around the preserve leading up to the estimated time of death.”

Stiles stops reading to groan in frustration. “He was taken into custody for _questioning_?” he exclaims incredulously. Stiles hastily skims through the rest of the story, chanting under his breath while he scrolls down the page. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Tell me something useful.”

The remainder of the article includes a few more quotes from the police, some notes regarding wildlife in the preserve, and a plea to anyone with information relating to the case to contact authorities. It’s all standard, dry reporting, as one would expect from a local newspaper, but it’s the single line of text at the bottom of the page, after the end of the article, that has Stiles feeling a rush of relief. The website has automatically generated the headline and link to a suggested article he should consider reading next: _Hale cleared of all charges, sister’s killer still at large._

The headline is fairly self-explanatory, yet Stiles clicks the link before he can even think about what he’s doing. Certainly, he’s interested in potentially collecting more information about Derek, but now he’s also curious about who actually killed Laura. Did local law enforcement ever figure it out?

The new article loads, and Stiles immediately hones in on the photo displayed in the top-left corner of the page. It features a younger, leaner Derek, turned slightly to the side, which places the handcuffs around his wrists in perfect view. He’s wearing a simple black t-shirt and jeans, and his expression is stony yet furious, flinty stare practically boring a hole into the ground. A cop with his back turned to the camera has one hand placed on Derek’s shoulder, and he appears to be talking to Derek. The photo was clearly taken in the preserve if the abundance of trees in the background is anything to go by, but none of that is what actually catches Stiles’ attention.

While Derek and the cop are obviously the main focus of the photo, several other people are displayed behind them. Most appear to be other police officers working on the scene, but two teenage boys standing near the arresting officer and gawking rudely at Derek’s plight look completely out of place.

The first boy has a floppy mop of dark hair, tan skin, and a crooked jawline. He’s wearing a light jacket over a striped blue shirt and jeans, and the expression on his face is a bizarre cross between fascination and worry.

The second boy is Stiles.

No, really.

The second boy doesn’t simply look _like_ Stiles. The second boy _is_ Stiles. He’s wearing a casual gray blazer over a t-shirt and khakis, and his hair is shorn short in a buzz cut. And Stiles—here, now, in the kitchen—doesn’t know what to make of it because he can’t recall when the photo possibly could have been taken. In fact, he’s fairly certain he’s never even set foot inside the preserve, in spite of the fact that this photo proves otherwise.

According to the date on the article, Stiles would have been a sophomore in high school at the time. And that _is_ what he’d looked like back then, questionable wardrobe choices included. But he has absolutely no recollection of witnessing Derek getting arrested. Up until this morning, Derek had been a virtual stranger to Stiles. Except, apparently not?

He allows there’s something distantly familiar about the boy standing beside the Stiles in the picture. They’re shoulder to shoulder, close enough that Stiles would think of them as friends or at least acquaintances. But Stiles is drawing a total blank. He doesn’t remember this picture, that day, or Scott—

The thought startles Stiles enough that he finally rips his gaze away from the laptop screen. “Scott?” he whispers aloud, uncertain as to how the name found its way into his mouth. “Who the hell is Scott?”

Stiles glances back at the photo again, ignoring for the moment that he can’t remember when it was taken, and focusing instead on the other boy. Is he Scott? He looks like a Scott—not that Stiles knows how a Scott is supposed to look. The kid appears to be around the same age as Stiles, though. Maybe they went to school together? But Stiles can’t imagine why he wouldn’t remember something like that. He didn’t really have any friends in high school, so finding himself and another classmate in the middle of a crime scene ought to be a memory that sticks out in his head. But it’s not.

Stiles wracks his brain for any shred of a memory about Derek, his arrest, and the boy who may or may not be named Scott. But he can’t make any progress because it feels like a railroad spike is being driven into his skull the harder he tries to remember.

Finally, Stiles decides to give up. For the moment, anyway. He has to. His headache is on the verge of migraine territory, and Stiles doesn’t want to be off his game tomorrow because he spent all night scouring Google for evidence that Derek Hale has magic powers. It sounds ridiculous in retrospect. If it were possible to stumble onto something like that with a simple Google search, wouldn’t someone else already have discovered Derek’s an Asgardian superhero or whatever?

Still, Stiles resolves to do his best to figure out what’s going on because if anything, Derek’s presence with Stiles in a photo he can’t remember makes Derek just that much more suspicious. Rather, that’s what Stiles tells himself because somehow, knowing Derek’s involved in some lost memory makes him feel less anxious about the photo overall. It doesn’t make sense, considering Derek’s a shady character at best, but nothing else about today has made much sense either.

~ ~ ~

Stiles is uncharacteristically quiet the next morning, and he can tell it’s getting on Erica’s nerves. Every time he starts to open his mouth to say what he wants to say, he stops himself. He’s wrestling with how to phrase what he wants to say exactly right. It just sounds so accusatory in his head, but perhaps that’s because it _is_ accusatory.

Eventually, Erica whirls around from where she’s assembling fruit tarts and scowls at him. “I can feel your eyes burning a hole into the back of my head, Stilinski. Unless you want to end up wearing these tarts, you better tell me what’s wrong right now.” She places her hands at her hips and taps her foot impatiently when Stiles only stammers, trying and failing to find an eloquence to pair with his thoughts. “I’m waiting,” Erica says, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

Stiles sighs, visibly deflating in what feels like defeat. “Why didn’t you tell me we know Derek Hale?”

Some of the annoyance fades from Erica’s face. She looks perplexed for a moment, before the expression is slowly replaced with what Stiles can only describe as hope. “We?” she echoes.

“Yes, _we_ ,” Stiles retorts, barely concealing his rising anxiety. It’s the only thing Stiles had been able to put together before he fell asleep the night before. Even if he doesn’t _know_ Derek, he should know _of_ Derek, considering Stiles was apparently present to see the man get arrested. Moreover, Erica’s overt worry for Derek’s welfare yesterday morning isn’t lost on him. Sure, any decent person ought to be concerned when they learn someone’s been shot, but Erica had stopped fretting once she learned Derek had gotten away. She’d been worried about Stiles, but her concern for Derek had vanished, almost like she knew his wound would heal.

It makes sense as long as Stiles doesn’t think too hard about it. Because when he lets the thoughts percolate a bit, he convinces himself he’s jumping to conclusions. Maybe he’s misreading Erica’s reactions. After all, why would Erica even know a person like Derek Hale? And why would she know about Derek’s unique healing abilities? People like Derek can’t go around telling everyone they meet about stuff like that because, well, then everyone would know, and it wouldn’t be a mystery anymore—

“Wait,” Erica says, thankfully derailing Stiles’ increasingly rocky train of thought. “You remember Derek? You’re remembering?” she asks as she bounces excitedly on the balls of her feet.

“Yeah?” Stiles replies, trying to sound nonchalant in hopes that Erica will reveal more about Derek. Besides, he’s not exactly lying. He does remember Derek—from yesterday. “I was there way back when he was arrested in the preserve,” Stiles offers as a means to sound more convincing.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my _God!_ ” Erica shrieks, startling Stiles as she abandons her workstation to cross the kitchen and dig around her purse for her phone. “It’s all coming back. Friggin’ _finally_ , Stiles. You have no idea how long we’ve been waiting for this.”

_We_? Who is _we_? Erica and Derek? Other people he apparently can’t remember knowing?!

Stiles watches warily as Erica’s fingers are a blur of motion across her phone screen while she fires off several texts. He wants to find out who “we” could be, but instead, he asks, “How long has it been, exactly?”

She glances up, and there are honest-to-God tears lining her eyes. “Two years, Stiles!”

“Two _years_?” Stiles gapes.

Erica blinks away the tears and goes back to texting, oblivious to the shock and panic warring for control over Stiles’ mind. “Most people would say Derek’s gonna be the most excited, but I’d bet good money Scott’s gonna pee himself a little when he finds out.” Her bright laughter fills the kitchen. She sounds _thrilled_ , and Stiles can’t keep up.

“Scott?!” he croaks incredulously.

Erica stops texting immediately and squints at him. “Yeah,” she says slowly, beginning to realize Stiles might not actually ‘remember’ whatever it is he’s forgotten. “Scott.”

Stiles feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. His heart is hammering away in his chest, like his body thinks he’s running a marathon or something. Not only does Erica know Derek, but she also knows Scott.

“Shit,” Erica curses. And Stiles barely catches it as she murmurs to herself, “Maybe everything’s coming back in pieces?” Then she hones in on Stiles again and says more loudly, “What all do you remember about the pack?”

Stiles flails a little because that is not a helpful question. “The pack of _what_?”

Erica’s mouth drops open, as though he’s just said a bad word. “W—Do you think I’ve taken up smoking or something?” she asks incredulously. Then she flaps her hand around and insists once more, “The _pack_!” Like that clarifies anything at all.

“Of _what_?” Stiles yells back, his mounting frustration smothering any remnants of shock and panic.

Erica has the gall to look baffled. “Okay, back up. Why are you even asking me about Derek?”

Stiles uses his fingers to massage his temples, hopeful that it will ward off his impending headache. “Because you lied about knowing him,” Stiles replies tiredly. “And don’t try to lie again. You _do_ know him.”

Erica rolls her eyes. “I don’t have to tell you about every single person I know. So what if I know him?”

Stiles splutters and mouths wordlessly for a moment before he says, “Don’t act like this isn’t a big deal! I’m pretty sure you just texted everyone you know that I remembered something that I don’t actually remember remembering, and now you’re acting like it’s not a big deal?”

Erica ignores most of his outburst. “What do you mean you don’t remember remembering?” she asks. “Then how did you know about—”

“Derek’s arrest?” Stiles finishes her thought. “I saw a picture of it online, and,” he hesitates a moment, feeling the mounting panic return once again, “I was in the background. Of the picture, I mean. But I honestly can’t remember being there for it,” he says, biting his lip nervously.

Erica keeps her tone calm and placating as she reasons, “People forget stuff all the time.”

But Stiles doesn’t buy it. “Apparently, both state and local police were involved with that case,” he responds. “If I was right in the middle of things when a key suspect was arrested, how could I possibly forget? How could anyone in a small town like Beacon Hills forget something like that?” A terrifying thought suddenly strikes him. “Did I have an accident or something? Am I—is there something—” Stiles paws at his own head, like he’ll discover a secret scar somewhere on his scalp if he searches hard enough. Sure, it would be shocking, but at least it would be a tangible answer to all this stress.

“Stiles, stop,” Erica says. “It’s nothing like what you’re thinking.”

“Then what is it?” Stiles shouts, completely at his wit’s end. “I feel like everyone knows something about me that I don’t. Just tell me,” he implores. “What is it?”

Erica purses her lips, as though it’s the only way to keep herself from revealing anything else incriminating. Finally, she just shrugs at him in response, shoves her phone in her back pocket, and marches back to her workstation to finish up the fruit tarts.

“Are you serious right now?” Stiles demands angrily. “You’re just going to ignore this?”

Erica sighs and turns to face him again. “I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Stiles.”

“Uh, the truth?” Stiles says, unable to keep raw emotion from flooding his voice.

“You already figured out the truth,” Erica says easily, but Stiles can tell she’s putting on a front. She’s lying again. “You figured out I know Derek. Good job. You want a parade or something?” Stiles is bewildered by her flippant behavior. He watches as she puts the last touches on the fruit tarts, hefts the tray of them into her arms, and walks out into the shop front to put them in the display case.

Conversation over, apparently.

Stiles isn’t sure he can recall a time before when Erica’s lied to him and it wasn’t meant as a joke or a prank. He replays the conversation in his mind, trying to determine if he’s at fault for the sour way it had ended, but he comes up dry.

Once the shop opens for the day, everything seems to run smoothly, like normal, except Erica’s avoiding him. Or maybe Stiles is avoiding her. Maybe they’re both avoiding each other. But Stiles can’t understand why. Are they fighting? Is this a common fight between friends? He’s not sure he’s ever even had a fight or disagreement with Erica. He’s not sure he’s ever had a tiff like this with _anyone_ before. Maybe Erica’s right, and Stiles needs to get a life. Meet more people he can befriend and then piss off for not remembering things.

It’s the end of the day when Erica finally talks to him again. Stiles is in the kitchen, boxing up cookies that didn’t sell that day; he can sell them as day-old cookies at a discount tomorrow. “Hey,” Erica says quietly, poking her head into the kitchen. “You need anything else? I’m heading out.”

Stiles has the unreasonable urge to hug her and never let go, which is just dumb. “Um. No,” he says, stilted and awkward. “Thanks.”

Erica gives him a tight-lipped smile and nods. “Cool,” she says, even though the tension between them is anything but. “See you tomorrow.”

She turns and leaves, and it’s only a second before Stiles clambers after her. Right as Erica reaches for the front door, Stiles blurts out, “Sorry!”

Erica scrunches up her nose and tilts her head to one side. “For what?”

Honestly, Stiles isn’t sure for what. All he knows is he’s never made Erica upset with him like he had today. They only spent eight hours not talking, but that’s more than enough for Stiles. Erica’s the only person he knows in this stupid town. He has no other family. She _is_ his family, even if Erica has her own family. He can’t bear the thought that he’s done something—unwittingly or not—to create a rift in their friendship.

“Stiles, for what?” Erica repeats impatiently.

Feeling like an utter doofus, Stiles grimaces and merely shrugs his shoulders.

Erica rolls her eyes. “I’m sorry, too,” she offers.

A small smile creeps its way onto Stiles’ face. “For what?” he asks.

Stiles expects her to call him a dork or to remark on his lame attempt at a joke, but Erica’s expression crumbles a little and is replaced with something somber and foreign. “I’m sorry you think I’m lying to you,” she replies, voice small. “But I promise you’ll understand one day. I swear we’ll figure this out.”

It’s a few moments after she leaves when Stiles is able to put a name to the seemingly unfamiliar emotion that’s been coursing through his system all day: _betrayal_.

Erica’s clearly keeping something from him, and he can’t fathom why. He knows everyone has a secret or two, and he realizes it’s unreasonable even for the closest of friends to divulge everything to one another. But Erica’s secret is about _him_. And now that he knows he’s apparently forgotten _two years_ of _something_ , Erica keeping secrets about it feels like betrayal.

All Stiles knows about betrayal is it never comes from one’s enemies. Unfortunately, he can’t find any solace in that knowledge as the sun sets and the bakery windows darken for the day. He locks the door and gets to work preparing dough and batter for tomorrow’s morning rush, doing his best to ignore that for the first time in as long as he can remember, he feels alone.


	4. Chapter 4

Things between Stiles and Erica appear to go back to normal. Rather, _Erica_ believes things between them are okay, and Stiles lets her.

Stiles convinces himself the only way to assuage his anxiety over Derek and Erica and maybe even Scott (whoever that is) and who knows what else is to have a talk with Erica, but he doesn’t want to risk upsetting her again. It’s not that he’s averse to confrontation; he’s simply afraid to disrupt the delicate balance they’ve achieved once again. He needs the constant that is Erica, especially in the face of so much uncertainty; moreover, she’s his only tether to his missing memories, and the mere thought of severing the connection to something he can’t even remember is inexplicably unbearable.

Other than that, everything appears to be going normally.

Except he’s pretty sure he’s being followed.

And maybe things aren’t so normal after all.

For about a week, Stiles has experienced the incredibly unnerving feeling that someone is watching him. He’ll be at the grocery store, or pumping gas into his jeep, or checking the mail, and all of the sudden, the hair at the nape of his neck stands on end, like he can feel someone’s eyes on him. But when he spins around to check who’s watching him, no one is there.

Initially, he writes it off as his tendency to be hyper vigilant, but it goes on for a week before he decides it’s too weird to ignore, and weird enough to call Erica about it.

“I know it’s your day off, but y’know how you said that one time to call if anything weird happened?” Stiles says by way of greeting.

“ _That 'one time' was after you had two intruders in the shop_ ,” Erica replies dryly.

“Oh, so you remember that,” Stiles says, keeping his tone light.

He can practically hear Erica rolling her eyes over the phone. “ _What happened? Are you okay?_ ”

“It’s probably nothing,” Stiles assures her, steadily coming to the conclusion that calling Erica about this was stupid. But it’s not like he could call the cops about _a_ _weird feeling_ —especially not after that kinda-sorta false alarm from his first (remembered) encounter with Derek.

“ _Spit it out, Stilinski_.”

“Well,” Stiles hedges one more second, “it’s just that I feel like I’m being watched. Or followed. Or whatever.”

“ _Where are you?_ ” Erica asks, all levity gone from her voice. Stiles can easily picture her gathering her things so she can hunt him down. “ _Are you at the bakery? Do you need me to come get you?_ ”

“No, I’m at the food pantry on 28th and Main, walking back to my car,” Stiles says. Every few days, he circulates between the local food pantries and soup kitchens to drop off baked goods that don’t sell, even after the day-old discounts. Just because people are experiencing hard times doesn’t mean they don’t also get cravings for sweets sometimes. “I don’t feel like I’m being followed _now_ ,” Stiles continues. “But you said to let you know if anything weird happened, and it’s been happening on and off for about a week.”

“ _A week?!_ ” Erica yelps. “ _And you’re finally saying something now?_ ”

Stiles winces and replies defensively. “Well, I kept trying to figure out who it was, but I could never single out anyone. I thought it was nothing,” he admits. “I’m _still_ half convinced it’s nothing, and you’re going to make fun of me for this call in—oh, holy _God_.”

“ _What? What?_ ” Erica demands, her voice shrill. “ _What happened? Are you okay?_ ”

“It’s _Derek Hale_!” Stiles hisses, briskly closing the remaining distance between himself and his jeep, then crouching behind it to peek at Derek through the windows.

“ _Oh. Uh_ ,” Erica wavers, “ _what’s he doing?_ ”

“Walking,” Stiles replies.

“ _Gonna need a little more info than that_ ,” Erica snaps. “ _Is he with anyone? Does he look like he’s, I dunno, running for his life from Kate Argent?_ ”

“I said he’s walking,” Stiles quips. “He’s not _walking_ for his life. Although,” he adds, “walking is a totally valid form of exercise—”

“ _Stiles!_ ”

“Right, sorry. Um,” Stiles pauses and squints to get a better look at Derek. “Okay, weird. I think he’s still wearing what he was wearing when I saw him a week ago.”

Erica snorts a laugh. “ _He’s a guy. So?_ ”

“There is a _bullet hole_ in that shirt,” Stiles says. “I mean, he’s not even wearing a jacket over it. Why would he still be wearing it?”

“ _Maybe it’s his lucky shirt?_ ” Erica guesses.

“He got shot in it,” Stiles replies flatly. “I don’t know how lucky it could be.”

“ _Well, he survived, didn’t he?_ ” Erica counters. “ _I say it’s fine as long as he washed the blood out of it_.”

Stiles can’t help gagging a little. “Gross,” he mutters, remembering all the blood from when he was dealing with Derek’s wound. “Oh, crap!” Stiles ducks beneath the windows when he sees Derek change direction. “He’s coming this way,” Stiles whispers frantically, dropping onto his hands and knees and crawling around to the back of his jeep. He’s not even sure why he’s behaving so bizarrely since up until now, _Derek_ was the suspicious one. Stiles is at his own car, with a perfectly good reason for being outside the food pantry.

“ _Did he see you?_ ” Erica wants to know.

And that’s a completely terrifying thought. “Oh, God. What if he recognized me and wants to, like, finish the job?” Stiles wonders aloud.

“ _He tied your hands to a cabinet_ ,” Erica says, doing a poor job of stifling a laugh. “ _There’s nothing left for him to finish. Job done_.”

“You weren’t there!” Stiles carefully sneaks a glance around the taillight of the jeep and immediately hides behind his car again because Derek _definitely_ saw him this time. “Oh, dude. Oh, dang,” Stiles wheezes, panic gripping him tight. “Erica, I think he saw me!”

“ _Quit freaking out_ ,” Erica admonishes, sounding annoyingly calm. “ _He won’t hurt you_ ,” she assures. “ _Definitely not out in the middle of the street_.”

Stiles actually pulls the phone from his ear so he can gawk at it, like that might somehow deliver his stunned facial expression to Erica. “You can’t possibly know that,” he whispers furiously. “Oh, my God! I’m hanging up!”

“ _No, Stiles wait_ —!”

Stiles ends the call and stuffs his phone into his back pocket. Sure, a normal person wouldn’t have reason to hurt Stiles, even though he’s being a total weirdo, skulking around his own car like he is, but Derek isn’t normal. He’s a criminal. Or something. He’s a bad dude! And the only defense Stiles has is—

Stiles carefully reaches into the backseat of his jeep through the open rear window and gropes around for a few seconds, searching for the baseball bat he keeps there. When his fingers finally wrap around it, he slowly pulls his arm back and gapes in surprise at what’s in his hand.

A rolling pin.

The only defense he has is a freaking _rolling pin_.

He remembers he’d put it back there a few weeks ago when he’d volunteered at a sugar cookie workshop down at the YMCA. Clearly, he never put it back in his kitchen, and now, with Derek’s footsteps drawing ever closer, Stiles is armed with a freaking _rolling pin_ and not with a baseball bat.

“Seriously, how is this my life?” he mutters under his breath. Stiles runs a hand down his face and takes a deep breath. The element of surprise isn’t a thing anymore, so he jumps to his feet, white-knuckling the rolling pin in one hand behind his back, and declares, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this—!”

Stiles falters and blinks in confusion. Derek’s nowhere to be seen.

“Uh…” Stiles circles his jeep and surreptitiously scans the area nearby, but he sees nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, he sees no one nearby at all. Was Derek ever even there to begin with? Stiles shakes his head to clear his thoughts, resolving it’s definitely time to go home.

But when he turns back to his jeep, a tall, strikingly beautiful woman is leaning against the driver’s side door of his car. She has long, chocolate brown hair, tan skin, and is wearing black pants and a crop top that reveals a sliver of toned abs. Strangely, she’s barefoot, and it seems as though her toenails are so overgrown they’ve curled downwards into _claws_. Everything about her is equal parts intimidating and stunning, and Stiles feels inexplicably on edge in her presence.

“Um, hi,” Stiles says. He’s about to wave in the goofy way he’s prone to—an easy wiggling of his fingers—but he finds he’s still holding the rolling pin. The best he can do at this point is grip it by one of the handles so it’s parallel to his legs and hope he doesn’t look too deranged. “That’s my car,” Stiles says, gesturing to the jeep. When the woman still doesn’t say anything, he stammers a bit and adds, “Can I help you with something?”

The woman stares at Stiles for a moment. She looks at him the same way he’s seen people gaze into the display case in his bakery—like she wants to devour him, and probably not in the fun way. Finally, in a sultry, smoky voice, she says, “The first time I saw you, I never could have imagined you would become a spark.”

Understanding dawns on Stiles. “I’m gonna stop you right there,” he says hastily. “I just figured out recently I’m missing some memories or something? So, I don’t mean to be rude, ma’am—”

“Kali,” she interjects, her tongue flicking out of her mouth to wrap around the syllables of her name. “You may call me Kali.”

Stiles gulps and takes an involuntary step back. “Okay. _Kali_. All the same, I don’t mean to be rude, but I seriously have no idea who you are. Maybe you could refresh my memory?”

A wolfish grin stretches Kali’s lips, and her teeth gleam in the waning evening light. “Just as well, spark. You don’t need to remember for me to tear out your throat.”

Stiles deals with his shock the only way he knows how: by babbling until things make sense again. “Is this a _Fifty Shades_ thing? Because I guess I’m into some freaky stuff, maybe. Like the thing where— _OH, HOLY GOD. YOUR FACE!_ ” Stiles yelps, unable to look away as the features on Kali’s face melt into one another, shifting here and there, until she looks like a monster from a horror movie. Her brow is much more defined, her nose resembles a snout, facial hair has sprouted out in the form of sideburns, and most startling of all, her teeth have grown into fangs.

“Oh, shit. Oh, shit,” Stiles gasps, tripping over his own feet as he backs away. “That is one hell of an allergic reaction. You ought to see a doctor about that!”

Kali roars at him in anger because it’s not like anyone ever roars with _joy_ or with _mercy._ Stiles looks around wildly, wondering where the hell the rest of the world is. How could someone else not have heard that? Kali sounds enraged and animalistic—there’s no other word for it. Then again, he can’t blame someone for _not_ running towards the sound of a feral mountain lion or whatever the hell Kali is.

Kali’s eyes narrow and glow red, and Stiles isn’t even shocked anymore, possibly because he’s desensitized after what the woman’s face has morphed into. Or maybe because her glowing red eyes look just like Derek’s, except his are blue. “Shall we see if the wolves will come out to play?” Kali asks as she slowly stalks toward him.

 _No_ , Stiles wants to say, but he can’t get the word past his throat.

Kali seems amused when she registers Stiles’ fingers tightening around the rolling pin as he deliberates his fight or flight options. “If I were you, little spark,” she says, waving a hand in front of her in a shooing motion, “I would run.”

“Yep. Great idea,” Stiles chokes out, and then he’s sprinting down the sidewalk, away from his jeep, away from the food pantry, and away from anywhere else he thinks there might be people. This lady is hopped up on _something_ , that’s for sure; she’s out of her mind and murderous, and he can’t risk running into a crowded building or park, where more people can get hurt. And it’s that thought that has him changing course and running straight towards the preserve. It’s getting dark, but hopefully that can play to his advantage.

He’s almost made it to the tree line when he feels a whoosh of air behind his left ear a fraction of a second before claws rip through his skin. Instantly, it feels like his left shoulder is on fire. Stiles shouts as he loses his footing and dives head-first into the ground, rolling a few times before he lands in a heap a few feet away.

Stiles moans in pain as he shakily gets to his hands and knees as quickly as he’s able; other than the wound on his shoulder, which he can’t check right now, he only has minor cuts and bruises from his tumble, so he’d count himself lucky if it weren’t for the crazy lady trying to kill him. He searches frantically for his rolling pin because as stupid as it is, it’s his only means of defense.

“Looking for this?”

Stiles glances up, and his heart sinks. Kali is holding the rolling pin.

“What do you want from me?” Stiles yells in despair as he slowly stands back up. “I’m just a baker, okay? Do you want money? I don’t—I don’t know what you want, okay? You keep calling me a spark, and clearly you know me, and maybe I did something to you that I don’t remember? But I can’t—” Stiles flounders for a moment, terrified and frustrated and confused all at once. “Whatever it is you want, you can’t get it if you kill me,” he reasons.

Kali’s smile turns dangerous. “On the contrary,” she counters. Her knees bend slightly, and it looks like she’s getting ready to spring forward. Stiles tenses and closes his eyes to brace for impact, but then a gust of wind hits his face, and something hard shoves at the center of his chest.

Stiles opens his eyes and is surprised to find Derek Hale’s hand pushing him away. The man’s eyes are unmistakably glowing blue, and his teeth are now fangs like Kali’s. Moreover, his face also resembles a hideously terrifying mask from a monster movie. “ _Run_ ,” Derek growls at him. He doesn’t wait to see if Stiles complies; instead, he turns to face Kali and snaps his teeth—his fangs—at her. “You want him? You have to get through me first.”

“What?!” Stiles squawks incredulously. “Dude, no!”

But no one pays any mind to Stiles. Kali merely grins at Derek and flashes her red eyes in response to his threat. “With pleasure, Hale.”

Derek shuffles sideways just as Kali tosses away the rolling pin and pounces on him. Stiles distantly realizes Derek took the first hit to make sure Stiles was out of range of Kali’s attack. Fortunately, he recovers quickly enough; when they collide, Derek leans backwards so they both tumble through the dirt and eventually separate, crouched on their knees.

Kali attacks first again, feigning right, and then dodging under Derek’s answering left hook to deliver an uppercut to his jaw. Derek stumbles back a few steps, and while his guard is down, Kali follows up with a swift kick to his stomach that sends Derek flying through the air until he crashes against a tree.

Stiles doesn’t even have a chance to worry if the man is all right because Derek swiftly rolls out of the way just as Kali’s foot smashes into the tree, right where Derek’s head had been mere seconds ago.

Kali is busy yanking her foot out of the tree, so Derek takes the chance to turn and yell, “Stiles, get out of here!”

Stiles is still getting over the fact that Derek looks completely unharmed after the way he impacted with the tree. He knows he’d be out for the count if someone had slammed him into a tree like that, so he realizes it would be smart to heed Derek’s command. Even if Derek wasn’t holding his own in this fight, there’s no way Stiles could be helpful going against Kali. She and Derek are superhuman; Stiles has never witnessed people fight the way they do. It’s unnatural.

However, Derek, for whatever insane reason, has put himself in this fight to protect Stiles, and that’s why Stiles can’t simply abandon him. But when Kali sprints forward and jabs Derek in the gut while Derek is focused on Stiles, he becomes aware that he’s a distraction for Derek, so Stiles takes that as his cue to slink away into the trees, putting himself just far enough so that Derek can pay attention to the fight, while Stiles can keep an eye on what’s happening.

Kali laughs as she peppers Derek with a barrage of punches coming at him so fast he can either defend or counter—not both. “I must say,” Kali comments casually, “you haven’t gotten any better at this.”

Derek growls at her. “Shut up,” he grinds out between clenched teeth. Then he lets one of Kali’s blows strike him against his jaw so that he can utilize the opening that creates. He takes the opportunity to swipe at her face, which is when Stiles realizes Derek has claws at the ends of his fingers now, too. Kali skillfully dodges the attack, and in a move almost too quick to see, she ducks down and spins around so that her outstretched leg knocks Derek off his feet.

Almost immediately, Derek rolls on his back so that his shoulders touch the ground, and then he bounces up again onto his feet, using muscles Stiles thought existed only for action heroes in movies.

Kali isn’t ready for Derek to retaliate so quickly, so she’s caught off guard when he jumps at her with a complicated series of kicks and punches, punctuated at the end with an enraged snarl from Kali. When she looks up, Stiles notes four bloody claw marks running down the right side of her face and neck.

“You’ll regret that,” she growls out. And before Derek can move, Kali delivers on her promise as she swipes one of her feet into the ground so that she skillfully kicks up dirt into Derek’s eyes. He cries out, both in fury and surprise, as he squeezes his eyes shut and staggers away. It’s a cheap shot, and surely Kali knows it, but Stiles doubts she cares. A feral grin mars her features as she descends upon Derek. She slashes a clawed hand across Derek’s torso, rending deep wounds into his flesh while Derek roars in obvious pain. He takes a few blind swipes at Kali with his own claws, but without his sight, he’s no match against her deadly skill and precision.

Stiles realizes with sinking dread that Derek is going to lose this fight, and he knows without a doubt that Kali isn’t going to allow him simply to tap out. If Derek loses, Derek dies. And Stiles might not know Derek or Kali or _anyone_ , apparently, but he doesn’t want Derek to die, especially not when the only reason he got into this stupid fight was to protect Stiles.

Derek is on his back, and Kali is sitting on his chest, right on top of the claw marks she’d just ripped into his torso, and she’s going to town pummeling his face with her fists. Stiles scans the clearing for anything he could use as a weapon, such as a stray branch or rock or—

Stiles almost laughs hysterically when his eyes land on his rolling pin, discarded haphazardly only a few feet away from Kali and Derek. Before he can think through how monumentally disastrous his plan might be, Stiles creeps forward from his hiding spot, mindful not to make any noise or draw attention to himself. But he doesn’t have to try too hard; Kali’s back is turned to him, and she is concentrated entirely on Derek’s demise.

Carefully, Stiles picks up the rolling pin and grips it tight, positioning his hands exactly as he would if it were a baseball bat. Then he sends up a silent prayer, screeches out a noise he intends to sound like a war cry, and charges as fast as he can at Kali.

Just as Kali pulls back, most likely to investigate why Stiles has completely lost his mind, Stiles swings the rolling pin with as much force as he can muster. It connects with the side of Kali’s head, and Stiles instantly panics when he hears the crunching noise that must be her skull cracking. He had meant to strike her head, but he doesn’t want to kill her. He doesn’t want to kill anybody!

The revelation makes the reality of this situation all the more frightening. How can he hope no one is hurt when they’re fighting for their lives? The rules for civil interactions with people have flown out the window, so to speak.

Unfortunately, Kali doesn’t go down easy. She twists around to glare at Stiles, and even in the heat of battle, Stiles feels queasy looking at the bloody, matted hair on her head from where he’d hit her. So he looks away, eyes traveling down her face until he notices the claw marks from Derek’s earlier attack are now simply four bloody smears across her skin. The gouges have healed, just like Derek’s bullet wound. But that’s all he can wonder at before Kali roars in his face, ostensibly incensed Stiles could deliver even one blow to harm her, no matter how ineffectually. He tries to get off one more hit with the rolling pin, but Kali effortlessly catches it in one hand, wrenches it out of Stiles’ palms, and tosses it into the woods.

Stiles gawks at her, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, shocked at being disarmed so efficiently. Kali swings a leg over Derek’s torso and somehow rotates on her knee that’s still on the ground. Stiles sees the kick coming and scuttles out of the way, but Kali’s toenails— _toeclaws_?!—manage to clip him, dragging a long wound across his chest.

“Oh, that is gross!” Stiles cries out, staring from Kali’s bloody toes, to his chest, and back to her toes again. “Lady, what the fuck!?”

But Kali is stalking towards him with purpose now, Derek long forgotten.

“Oh, shit. Oh, shit,” Stiles chants, and then he trips over his own feet and lands hard on his butt in his efforts to distance himself from her. He dimly registers a crunching sound, and he just knows the phone in his back pocket is a goner, but he can’t spare more than a second to fret over the loss. Stiles scrambles backwards, dragging himself across the ground as he frantically searches what has got to be the cleanest clearing on the planet for any kind of makeshift weapon, but he’s shit out of luck. Desperately, he grabs fistfuls of dirt and flings them at Kali, but he might as well be plying her with confetti for all the use it’s doing.

Out of options, Stiles throws his arms up over his head and cowers in fear. “Please don’t,” he whimpers. “Please!”

Kali snorts with amusement, and before she can do whatever she’d planned to end Stiles’ life, Stiles hears a dull thump, and then a heavy weight settles across his legs. Stiles lowers his arms and screams a little in relief when he discovers Kali’s unconscious form slumped at his feet.

Stiles’ eyes travel upwards until they rest on Derek’s bloody—and back to human—face. He sways uneasily on his feet, lists slightly to one side before he catches himself, and then he rasps out, “What part of _run_ don’t you understand?”

Stiles scrambles away from Kali’s body and stands up again. “Is she dead?”

Derek frowns. “She’s supposed to be,” he replies grimly.

Stiles shakes his head in confusion. “For the moment, I’m going to pretend that’s a normal answer,” Stiles replies. He whips his phone out of his pocket and curses aloud upon confirming it’s no longer functioning. He shoves it back in his pocket anyway and says, “Look, I have no clue who this lady is, but we are so leaving before she wakes up to finish the job.” Without further ado, Stiles roughly grabs the tattered remains of the front of Derek’s shirt and hauls him into the woods. The man stumbles only a little, and in the back of his mind, Stiles is vaguely aware of the fact that Derek probably wouldn’t let Stiles push him around like this if he wasn’t half dead on his feet.

Stiles points them in the rough direction of his jeep, does his best to stay near the edge of the forest, where streetlamps can filter in through the trees and light their way, and walks as fast as he thinks Derek can follow him in his injured state. When he notices Derek is lagging behind after a few minutes, Stiles deems they’ve traveled far enough to warrant a break so they can catch their breaths.

“Here,” Stiles says, guiding Derek to a tree so that he can lean against it. “We can stop for a sec. We’re both dead if you collapse right now.”

Derek wheezes a bitter laugh in response. He has one arm curled loosely around his torso, while his other hand holds onto the tree. The wounds on his face already look better than they had in the clearing, and some of the color is returning to his face as well. The scratches down his torso still look pretty bad, but at this point, Stiles has no doubt they will heal soon enough, too. Still, Stiles asks, “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Derek grunts out, gingerly moving away from the tree to stand on his own strength again. Then he reaches out but reluctantly stops himself before his hand actually touches Stiles. “Are you?”

“ _No_ ,” Stiles snaps, unable to tamp down the outburst now that he’s had a minute to process. He looks down at the gash across his chest, which is still bleeding sluggishly. He crosses his right hand over to his left shoulder and pokes tenderly at the cuts back there. “I mean, I don’t think I need stitches or anything, but _no_ , I am so not okay. What the hell is going on?” he demands.

“Later,” Derek replies, all business as he wraps a hand around Stiles’ back to get him moving again. “First we need to—”

“Let me go!” Stiles digs his heels into the ground and wriggles free from Derek’s grasp. “I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me what’s going on. Who are you? Why’d you save me back there? She wasn’t after you; she wanted me.”

Derek scowls, affronted. “A simple thank you would suffice.”

“Oh, _please_ ,” Stiles grouses. “I saved you as much as you saved me.” The slight upward twitch of Derek’s lips doesn’t escape Stiles’ notice. “What? How is that funny, big guy?” And it’s as though that simple moniker touches a nerve or something because Derek’s expression is instantly stoic once more.

“I know things don’t make sense to you right now, but how about we walk and talk?” Derek proposes by way of a compromise. “Like you said, she’s after you, and I’d hate to find out how we fair a second time around if she wakes up and hears you shouting out here.”

Stiles gives him a dirty look but relents all the same because Derek is right. “Fine,” he bites out impudently. Then, with a little more concern, he asks, “Are you really going to be okay? I seriously can’t believe you’re still standing.”

Derek offers him an appreciative smile. It’s a small movement of his mouth, but it brightens up his entire face, even through the slowly healing cuts and bruises. “I’ll be fine,” he promises.

“Okay,” Stiles says, watching him closely. He’s unconvinced, but there’s nothing to be done about it now. “My car is somewhere that way,” Stiles says, pointing through the trees. “I’m parked at the food pantry. If we can get there, I’ll give you a ride to the hospital.” Stiles thinks back to the last time he wanted to get Derek to a hospital and rolls his eyes. “Rather, I can give you a ride to wherever you want to go that _isn’t_ the hospital.”

“Thanks,” Derek replies.

They walk in comfortable silence for a bit. Stiles stumbles here and there because he has the grace of a baby gazelle, and Derek uses the trees on his side of the forest like crutches. They help one another through the woods, and they carry on that way until Stiles can’t keep his thoughts to himself anymore.

“Are you gonna tell me what you are?” Stiles asks. “Are you cat people or something?” he blurts out. “I saw the way you two went after each other, and Simone Simon’s got nothing on you. It wasn’t normal.” Derek’s face closes off and his hackles rise. “I mean,” Stiles hastily continues, “I’ve tried to figure it out. I thought for one hot minute you and Steve Rogers had the same origin story, which would be amazing, and you could totally cosplay him if you wanted—” Stiles shakes his head and gets back on track. “But that’s a comic book,” he says. “It’s not real, but you are. So, what are you?”

“I’m not anything, Stiles,” Derek replies tiredly.

Stiles groans. “And that’s the other thing!” he exclaims. “I never told you my name, yet you’re talking to me like you know who I am.”

“I do know who you are,” Derek says matter-of-factly. “I know where you work. It wasn’t difficult from there to determine the owner of Claudia’s Bakery.”

Stiles narrows his eyes and looks at Derek suspiciously. “Well, I know who you are, too.”

Derek actually barks out a laugh so loud that it startles Stiles. “Do you now?”

“Yeah,” Stiles replies, shoving his hands into his pockets and shrugging to give off an air of nonchalance. “I mean, you probably don’t remember me, but I remember you from when you got arrested a while back. Right in these woods, if I’m not mistaken.”

It’s Derek’s turn to look dubious. His sharp green eyes dart down to Stiles’ chest and flick quickly up to his face. “You’re lying,” he says, sounding somewhat astonished. “How can you know that and be lying?”

Stiles’ temper flares then. “No, _you’re_ lying. Everyone is lying, and I’m so sick and tired of being the butt of the cosmic joke that is my life!”

“Stiles, I know this is confusing, but trust me when I say—”

“Trust you?!” Stiles repeats incredulously. “I don’t even know you, so why on Earth would I trust you?” he seethes. “I don’t trust you, and you clearly don’t trust me.” Derek looks stricken at the outburst, and Stiles almost regrets his rant. _Almost_. “Once we get out of here, I’ll give you a ride because I don’t need to read about you dying in the middle of the—” _Woods_. Like Laura, his sister. Cringing, Stiles takes a deep breath and starts over. “I’ll give you a ride. But after that, we’re done. Okay?” he says, looking to Derek for his answer. “Because I can’t do this anymore. You have no idea what the past week has been like for me.”

Derek chuckles a little in response, but the noise isn’t amused or mean. It sounds fragile, like broken glass. “That’s a good idea, Stiles,” he says plaintively.

Stiles doesn’t know what to make of how easily Derek agrees, but he’s stressed and scared and feeling petulant, so he adds, “And quit saying my name!”

Derek doesn’t say anything else after that. He won’t even look at Stiles, though his arm occasionally shoots out to prevent Stiles from falling flat on his face as a result of tripping over random obstructions on the forest floor.

With conversation no longer an option to distract him, Stiles is forced to think about the situation he’s in. All he knows is he’s missing memories— _two years_ of memories, according to Erica. And evidently, it’s not a result of an accident or anything else serious because surely, someone would have mentioned it by now. Stiles briefly marvels at how calmly he’s digesting all of this, but he realizes it’s because he doesn’t quite believe it. He can remember with perfect clarity everything that happened the past two years. Those memories aren’t gone; they’re still in his head, right where they belong. As far as he’s concerned, he’s not missing the past two years of his life.

So, does that mean he has selective memory loss? Is that a thing? Is that how he and Derek have a history that Stiles can’t recall?

Stiles steals a sidelong glance at Derek. The claw marks down his middle don’t appear to be bothering him so much anymore, but other than that, he’s serious and stony-faced as ever, his expression revealing absolutely nothing at all. When Derek notices Stiles is staring, Stiles frowns hard and averts his gaze.

If he and Derek used to know one another, and Stiles has somehow forgotten him, Stiles hopes that even if they were only passing acquaintances Derek would have stayed in his life, regardless. Who seriously abandons someone if they’ve lost their memories? A situation like that would be the ultimate test for any kind of relationship.

Then again, Derek had just finished risking his life making sure Kali didn’t kill Stiles, so that certainly earns him major points, even if Stiles is still angry with him and with everyone else for keeping him in the dark about his own life.

He’s still grappling with the fact that he’s lost two years of _something_ he’s apparently been able to live without missing when Derek’s shoulder bumps into him. Stiles raises his eyebrows in question, and Derek juts out his chin and quietly says, “I think we’re at your car.”

Stiles looks forward, and indeed, they are approaching his beat-up, powder blue jeep. “You know the car I drive,” he says flatly. When Derek only fidgets uncomfortably, Stiles shakes his head and sighs. “Of course you do. C’mon, big guy,” Stiles says resolutely, forging ahead and waving a hand over his shoulder for Derek to follow. “The sooner we get out of here, the sooner I can get you out of my hair.”

And with those words uttered, everything devolves into chaos again. An outraged roar rips through the woods, and by the time Stiles registers the sound and whips around, he’s greeted with the most bizarre sight: Kali is leaping out of the trees wielding his rolling pin, of all things.

Derek places himself between Kali and Stiles as he crouches down low and spreads his feet wide apart, making himself a larger target. He answers Kali’s roar with one of his own, then calls over his shoulder, “Get out of here, Stiles. Run!”

There isn’t anything Stiles would like to do more, but he doesn’t move. He can’t. It’s not because he’s frozen with terror, or cornered, or confused. In fact, for once, there’s no questioning what he feels in that moment because only one thought circles his mind with startling clarity: there is no way he can leave these woods without Derek.

Stiles doesn’t have a chance to wonder at the notion longer than that because the fight is over hardly before it even starts, and everything changes in an instant.

Stiles expects the fight to resemble a scene from a movie—not because he’s out of touch with reality but because he doesn’t exactly live a life where people get into life-or-death battles every half hour, so movies are his ground zero for this sort of situation. He expects Kali and Derek to trade witty barbs first, or to spar briefly without either of them getting too badly injured, somewhat like their earlier fight. Most importantly, he expects Derek will be okay.

Once their roaring dies down, Derek and Kali circle each other once, and there’s no more posturing past that. Since Kali is holding the rolling pin in one outstretched hand, it appears as though her side is exposed, so Derek initiates an attack by propelling himself towards the opening. But precisely when he gets within range of her midsection, Kali twists around so that Derek’s fangs snap shut around nothing. Then she uses her free hand to clamp onto the nape of Derek’s neck to slam him down hard into the ground. Derek struggles to get up, but he’s too slow and still healing from his last encounter with Kali.

And that’s when Stiles realizes with horror what’s about to happen.

Just as Derek has precariously climbed onto his hands and knees, Kali grips the rolling pin in both her hands, raises it high above her head, and swiftly brings it down to stab into Derek’s back. The squelching sound the rolling pin makes as it’s speared all the way through Derek’s middle is loud as a shot in their otherwise quiet surroundings.

Stiles is too far away to do anything to save Derek, but still, his hand instinctively reaches out as he shouts in despair, “ _NO!!!_ ” And in that moment, it’s as though every spare ounce of raw energy, rage, and desperation _literally_ explodes out of his open palm in a crackling burst of vibrant, electric blue light and soars across the forest to zap Kali out of existence. One second, she’s impaled Derek to the ground using that wretched rolling pin, and the next, it’s as though she had never been there at all.

Breathing hard, Stiles brings his hand closer to inspect it. Bright blue sparks are still popping off his palm, and his fingers are trembling with a life of their own. He glances again at the spot where Kali had been engulfed by glowing blue energy from his hand and vanished, but he can’t spare a moment more to marvel at the phenomenon because his gaze involuntarily slides over to Derek, who is pinned like a butterfly to the ground. Derek, whose blood is slowly creating a puddle of murky, dark red over the dirty ground. Derek, who is dead.

Kali killed Derek. And Stiles killed Kali.

Two people _died_ , and it was all because of Stiles.

Without warning, his stomach churns with guilt and loss, and Stiles has to fling himself to the side so that he can throw up.

Once he’s recovered enough, Stiles unsteadily picks himself up off the ground and cautiously approaches Derek’s body. Most of what he knows about the man is from Google searches, but after all he’s been through, Stiles can’t believe this is how he dies—speared through and through with a _rolling pin_.

With _Stiles’_ rolling pin. And with no other suspects around. No witnesses either. And no help.

He has to call the police, but will they believe he didn’t kill Derek? And what of Kali? Sure, she’s a maniac, but she’s still a person. Won’t people she knows be missing her?

And Stiles is the only suspect; no matter what else he thinks about, it’s what his mind always circles back to. Is he a murderer? Is that what he’s selectively forgotten? That he’s actually a dangerous murderer? It might explain why he’s gone two years without anyone mentioning a secret like that. Not many people could know about that and _not_ mention it to the cops.

Stiles has to force himself to back off from his increasingly irrational train of thought. He can feel he’s working himself up to a panic attack, and he simply can’t afford to fall apart right now because he needs to take care of Derek. The man saved his life, and Stiles decides the least he can do is repay that effort by making sure Derek is treated with the dignity he deserves from here on out, even if it means more trouble for Stiles in the end.

He takes his phone out of his back pocket and curses when he’s reminded once again it had broken when Kali had first chased him down. Maybe Derek has a phone?

Stiles glances at the steadily growing pool of blood spreading out from beneath Derek’s body. “Oh, geez,” Stiles whines as he tip toes around the blood and tries not to feel awkward for the way he’s poking and prodding Derek’s pants to check for a phone. His mind wanders back to when he’d been shaping the fondant butt of the Winnie the Pooh cake topper only a week ago. Touching Derek Hale’s butt would definitely be an upgrade if the guy actually had a pulse.

As if on cue, Derek suddenly moans out a wounded noise.

Stiles yelps in surprise and backs away slightly to get a better look at his face. “Derek?”

Derek grunts, as though in response, and his fingers begin to twitch in the dirt, like he’s trying to get up.

“Holy God. _Derek_?!” Stiles crashes to his knees, and his hands hover uncertainly around Derek’s face and shoulders. He doesn’t want to touch the man and add to the incomprehensible pain he must be feeling, but he wants to help.

“Where—” Derek coughs, and a dribble of blood spills out from the corner of his mouth. “Kali?”

“She’s—” Stiles briefly glances at his own hands, then clears his throat. “She’s gone. Don’t worry.”

That seems to assuage some of Derek’s anxiety, and the urgency to get up immediately leaves him as he slumps tiredly back to the ground.

Stiles knows this isn’t the time to sit back and have a casual conversation with a guy currently impaled to the forest floor with a rolling pin, but he can’t stop himself from wondering aloud, “Dude, how are you still alive?”

“How are you?” Derek asks. His voice is scratchy and rough, but he’s already sounding a little more alert.

Stiles pulls a face and scoffs. “I’m fine. I’m not the one skewered on a freakin’ rolling pin!”

Derek groans a little and furrows his brow. “How are you still alive—?” He pauses for breath, and Stiles can tell he isn’t done speaking yet. When Derek is ready, he adds, “What part of ‘run’ don’t you understand?”

“You’re really bossy, y’know that?” Stiles gripes. “Are you sure you’re not about to die? I have no idea how this works,” he says, flapping his hands around Derek’s body.

“I’m healing,” Derek grunts out. “Slowly.”

Stiles stares pointedly at the rolling pin that’s still entirely through Derek’s midsection. “Do you have a phone?” he asks. “Kali kinda killed mine, and I’m so not equipped to deal with any of this on my own,” he admits.

Derek shakes his head. “No phone,” he replies. “But I can call someone after I get up.”

“Why does nothing you say ever make sense?” Stiles grumbles. He thinks he sees Derek crack the tiniest of smiles, which lifts Stiles’ spirits a bit. “You’re sure you’re okay? Because I’m gonna go pull my car up as close to you as I can get it. And I’ll see what I have in the back to staunch the bleeding,” Stiles explains. “But I won’t leave if you’re not okay. Well,” he hedges, “you are so far from okay. But I’ll stay if you need me to.”

Derek nods. “Go,” he says. “I’m okay.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You’re not okay, weirdo.” And with that final remark, he jogs to the jeep and steers the car into the woods without incident. Since they’re on the edge of the preserve, the trees here are spaced further apart, so it’s easy to drive in, and there is plenty of room for Stiles to turn the car around when they’re eventually ready to leave.

Stiles hops out of the jeep, grabs a few things from the rear, and is kneeling next to Derek again in no time. He can see the muscles in Derek’s arms straining, like he’s trying to push himself up, but in his current state, he simply doesn’t possess the strength. “Quit wasting energy,” Stiles admonishes him with a scowl. “Okay,” he says once he notes some of the tension leaving Derek’s shoulders. “There wasn’t much in the back of my car, but I found three aprons and a blanket, which smells like wet dog for some reason. I don’t even own a dog.” Derek snorts at that, amused. “Anyway, I’m guessing you’re the best judge of your body since it doesn’t work the way ordinary bodies do. If we work together to get you up, and then try to apply pressure to your back and stomach with the aprons and blanket, would that be enough for you to heal? Or sufficient for keeping enough of your insides _inside_ until we can get to a hospital or whatever?”

“No hospitals,” Derek says adamantly. He’s a broken record on the issue.

“No hospitals?” Stiles echoes in disbelief. “You have a hole the size of my arm _through your back_. You got a witch doctor or something up your sleeve?” he jokes.

“Yeah,” Derek replies.

Stiles just glowers at him. “Of course you do. Because witch doctors are a thing now.” He heaves a long-suffering sigh. “What is my life?” Stiles asks the trees. When he receives no answer, Stiles determines the only thing he can do now is get to work.

He lays out one of the aprons flat on the ground, beside Derek, and he folds the other two into small squares. He isn’t sure what to do with the blanket yet, so he spreads it out nearby so that it’s easy to reach, should he ascertain a use for it.

“Still with me?” Stiles questions when he crouches next to Derek again.

Derek makes a noncommittal grunt, which is good enough for now.

“On the count of three, you’re going to push up, and I’ll pull, just enough to get you off the rolling pin,” Stiles explains. “Don’t even think about standing up. Just get off, and roll onto this apron,” he says, pointing to the one spread flat on the ground.

Derek nods as he shifts slightly to get his hands in place to push. Stiles carefully wraps one arm around Derek’s stomach, trying to be mindful of the wounds there, and wraps the other around the man’s chest. With one arm on either side of the rolling pin, Stiles thinks this gives him the best leverage to help pull up Derek.

“Ready?” Stiles asks.

Derek nods again.

Stiles doesn’t waste anymore time and starts counting. “One…two…three!” They both groan, and it seems to take a monumental effort to move Derek a mere handful of inches off the rolling pin, but eventually, they manage. Derek flops, exhausted and red-faced, onto the waiting apron, and Stiles immediately wants to vomit again upon glimpsing the bright red blood-soaked front of Derek’s shirt. He dry heaves at least once, thankful he has nothing left to throw up, and gets back to work. He roughly presses one of the bundled up aprons to the gaping hole in Derek’s stomach, then moves Derek’s hands to grab hold of the fabric.

“Derek. Hey, Derek,” Stiles calls, lightly slapping the man’s face. Derek appears pale and clammy now—much worse than when he was still impaled, and it makes Stiles’ stomach twist. In fact, he looks so out of it that Stiles feels bad even asking for his attention, but he doesn’t have a choice. “Derek, you with me?” Once Stiles gets a grimace and an affirmative nod, he continues. “I’m going to turn you on your side for a second to get this,” he pauses, holding up the second folded apron, “on your back. But I need you to keep pressure on the apron I’ve got on your stomach. Can you do that?”

“Yeah,” Derek breathes out after a moment. Then he nods again and squeezes his eyes shut when he starts applying pressure to the wound at his front. “Do it,” he grunts.

As quickly as he can, Stiles pushes at Derek’s ribcage until the man is turned on his side, pointedly ignoring the large spot of blood already heavily staining the apron that’s on the ground. Carefully, he places the second folded up apron on the wound at Derek’s back, then slowly eases Derek onto the ground once more. “Almost done,” Stiles promises. “Just hang on. You’re doing great.” He grabs the apron strings of the apron that had been laid flat on the ground and ties them tightly around Derek’s torso so that the flat apron somewhat acts like a clamp for the two folded aprons on either side of Derek’s body.

“I know that’s not nearly enough. I can already see the wounds are bleeding through the aprons because you’re not supposed to dress a wound like this using aprons,” Stiles offers in a panicked rant, “but I don’t know what else to do past wrapping you in the blanket, burrito style.”

Derek shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he wheezes. “Just give me a minute.”

A minute turns into over twenty. Within the first ten minutes, Stiles is on the verge of losing his mind because he feels like Derek will surely die, and he can’t deal with that. Not after he just came back to life— _again_. The guy seriously needs to reassess his life choices.

“Don’t you have any self-preservation instincts?” Stiles grouses furiously. “The two times I’ve come across you—rather, the two times I remember—you’ve been shot and stabbed. Like,” Stiles flounders for a moment, “take up knitting or something! Start a garden! Paint!”

“Would you believe,” Derek croaks, “this isn’t the first time you’ve told me that?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Considering we’re sitting on the forest floor waiting for your internal organs simply to knit themselves back together and magically heal, I think I’m ready to believe just about anything.”

It’s silent for a few minutes after that. Stiles keeps a watchful eye on Derek, but it seems the man is merely gathering his energy.

“Y’know,” Stiles says suddenly, “I’m still mad at you. And at Erica.” Derek doesn’t say anything that might reveal he doesn’t know anyone named Erica, so Stiles carries on. “I can tell that you guys are keeping something huge from me. But still…thank you,” he says sincerely. “You didn’t have to put yourself between Kali and me. I still don’t know what I did to make her so intent on killing me, but thank you for saving me.”

“I’ll always save you,” Derek replies earnestly.

Stiles is momentarily confounded because he can’t determine if it’s the delusional rambling of a man suffering from too much blood loss, or if the admission—the promise?—is a rare kernel of truth. A sentence like that surely doesn’t sound like it’s coming from a casual acquaintance.

“Derek, what were we to each other?” Stiles asks. “You can’t say stuff like that and—” he bites his lip and thinks hard. “I forgot about something important when I forgot about you. Didn’t I?”

Derek closes his eyes, a look of concentration crosses his face, and then he begins struggling to sit up. “Help me stand,” he says, ignoring Stiles’ question completely.

Stiles doesn’t protest because he’s not sure what he would do with any answer Derek could have provided. Because no matter what, in the end, he still doesn’t remember the guy.

After some grunting and groaning from them both, Derek is miraculously on his feet, albeit leaning heavily on Stiles. The man is a solid wall of muscle, and Stiles has no idea how he doesn’t completely collapse under Derek’s weight. Fortunately, the jeep is only a few wobbly steps away, and once Stiles gets Derek into the passenger seat, he drapes the blanket over him, shuts the door, and stands there for a second to regain his breath.

“Where am I taking you?” Stiles asks, propping his elbow inside the rolled down window on Derek’s side of the car.

Derek is reclining in his seat, looking absolutely drained. He slowly rolls his head to face Stiles and rasps, “Dr. Alan Deaton’s Animal Clinic.”

Stiles raises one skeptical eyebrow. He’s familiar with that vet clinic; it’s around the corner from his bakery. Derek must know this as well because he doesn’t bother to supply directions. “I’m aware humans are also animals, but you’d seriously rather go to a small animal clinic than to an actual hospital, equipped to treat people-sized animals?”

Derek ignores the question and instead says, “Cover your ears.”

Stiles scrunches up his nose. “Huh?”

“Cover your ears,” Derek orders again as he sits up in his seat.

Stiles hesitantly places his hands over his own ears. “Now what?”

Derek responds by taking a deep breath, and when he lets it out, a booming, piercing howl fills the air. Even though Stiles has his ears covered, the sound is so intense at this distance that he stumbles back a few steps in surprise. He can hardly describe it: the howl is whistling and melodic, thundering yet peaceful, and never ending in the way it echoes and bounces off everything. It’s not a sound Stiles could imitate, even if he tried. There’s something distinctly _foreign_ about it, though he’s not sure that’s specifically the correct word. But it’s beautiful, and it goes on and on until it doesn’t anymore; Stiles can’t quite pinpoint when the sound waves taper off and blend in with the world once again.

Stiles lowers his hands and splutters for a moment. “Did you just—when you said you were going to make a call, I thought—” Then Stiles feels his mouth drop open in awe as realization dawns on him. “You’re a wolf!”

Derek shrugs his shoulders like this isn’t the single most fascinating detail there ever could be about anyone on the planet. “Werewolf,” he corrects mildly, and an instant later, he’s overtaken by a violent coughing fit.

“Dude, you don’t look so good,” Stiles says once the coughing dies down. A thin sheen of sweat covers Derek’s skin, and he’s much paler now and faintly trembling. The only explanation Stiles can imagine is the howl must’ve taken more energy out of him than he could afford to spare.

Stiles scrambles into the driver’s side of the car, and without thinking, puts his hands on Derek’s face to gauge his temperature. “You’re burning up!” he cries out in alarm.

Derek squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head slightly. “Werewolf body temp,” he says hoarsely by way of explanation.

“You still need to explain all that to me,” Stiles says, trying to sound flippant as he reaches across Derek’s torso to grab the seatbelt and strap the man in. Derek doesn’t resist at all; in fact, he hardly seems to notice Stiles is essentially manhandling him. Stiles can’t understand why his condition has plummeted so quickly. Derek’s body isn’t like a normal human’s, but Stiles thought that meant his healing capabilities made him _better_. However, at the moment, Derek’s back to looking like he’s on the brink of death.

“Hang on,” Stiles says as he buckles his own seatbelt and starts the car. “I’m about to break some traffic laws, but don’t worry. We’re getting you to Dr. Deaton, and you’re going to be just fine.” He isn’t sure if he’s convincing Derek or himself; regardless, Derek doesn’t respond.

“Derek?” Stiles calls warily while he slams his foot onto the gas pedal. He keeps sneaking furtive glances at Derek whenever he can manage to look away from the winding path through the forest, but the man is unresponsive now. “Don’t you dare die on me after everything you’ve put me through,” Stiles warns as he jerks the steering wheel and swerves onto the main road.

“Geez, why is everything so extreme with you?” Stiles rambles as he zooms through an intersection, narrowly making the light. “You’re either the epitome of health, or literally dying in my arms. You’re either a freakin’ G.I. Joe, or you’re totally getting your ass kicked—oh, shit!” Stiles yelps as he cuts someone off to make a turn, the blaring of angry car horns fading in the distance. “You really ought to consider settling somewhere in the middle. Maybe take up baking!” Stiles’ eyes dart to Derek’s form, but he’s not looking any better. The blanket has slipped past Derek’s shoulders, revealing the hole in his midsection has bled through the aprons completely. But at least Derek’s mouth is hanging open just enough that Stiles can tell he’s still breathing.

“We’re almost there. We’re almost there,” Stiles chants frantically as his jeep flies past Claudia’s Bakery and practically turns on two wheels as he finally makes it into Deaton’s parking lot.

Considering he could barely support Derek’s weight while the man was conscious, there’s no way Stiles will be able to lug Derek’s dead weight into the clinic on his own. He feels bad leaving Derek alone in the car, even for a second, but he has no choice. “Please don’t die.” And with that plea, Stiles kicks open the door and dashes across the parking lot to Deaton’s clinic.

“Is anyone inside?!” Stiles shouts as he bangs desperately on the door. “I need some help out here! Dr. Deaton? Please, it’s an emergency!”

For one horrifying moment, he considers the possibility that no one is in; after all, the business day has long since ended. But suddenly, the front windows light up, and relief floods Stiles’ system as he slumps against the doorframe. “Oh, thank God,” he breathes out in a rush. “My friend’s hurt really bad,” he explains through the door when he hears someone flipping the locks. “But he told me to bring him here cuz he’s a—I don’t even know, but he said you could help. There was a fight, and—”

The words die on Stiles’ lips the moment the door swings open. He expects to be greeted by Dr. Deaton. He doesn’t even know how the veterinarian looks, but he’s positive the young man standing before him isn’t the doctor. The person at the door has much more muscle definition and tone than Stiles can recall. He has a new haircut, but the tan skin and crooked jawline are unmistakable.

“Scott?” Stiles gasps in disbelief.

The guy at the door—Scott—looks briefly perplexed before the expression on his face melts into one of absolute _glee_. “Stiles!” he whispers, like the name is sacred.

Before Stiles can say or do anything in response, his head suddenly feels like it’s going to explode. A deep, pulsing ache begins at the base of his skull and radiates what feels like fire to the rest of his head. In seconds, his entire body is consumed with white hot agony, and the only thing Stiles can notice is there are bright blue sparks popping off his palms again.

Scott takes a step closer, open concern on his face. But Stiles still has enough sense of mind to remember what the energy leaking out of his hands did to Kali. “Stay back!” Stiles warns as he shuffles away. Kali is already dead; Derek is halfway there. And then there’s everyone the nogitsune killed, and Donovan, and—

For a breath, Stiles boggles over what the hell a _nogitsune_ might be, but then he cries out as an indescribable pain lances through his entire body, leaving him unable to support his own weight. He barely registers his knees buckling, however, because Scott lurches forward and cradles Stiles to his chest. Out of all the things Stiles expects, he doesn’t anticipate Scott shoving his nose into Stiles’ neck and taking a nice, long whiff. Then his eyes look alert and sharp, like he’s learned something important. He glances over his shoulder and shouts into the clinic, “Dr. Deaton! I need you out here!”

Stiles is fading fast, and he’s only capable of a single rational thought through the blurry haze of pain clouding all his senses. “Derek,” he croaks into the soft fabric of Scott’s shirt. “Help Derek.”

He registers Scott’s gaze shift back to focus on him, and Stiles could swear Scott’s eyes glow red for a moment, just like Kali’s. But amidst the terror Stiles feels as the world splinters around him, these red eyes don’t deepen the fear clawing at his gut. The last thing he feels before everything falls away and his eyes slip closed is _safe_.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles’ hearing comes back first, though it feels as though someone has stuffed cotton into his ears, and everything sounds both hollow and hyper-focused.

“It would appear that an entirely arbitrary series of events and circumstances have triggered some memories,” an unfamiliar, authoritative voice explains. “This certainly confirms his memories are still intact, but it in no way means he is actively remembering.”

“Dammit, Deaton!” And that’s Derek. That’s definitely Derek. Stiles would know the irritation and disdain in his voice anywhere. “Can’t you ever say anything useful?”

“Derek, he’s trying to help.” Stiles thinks that might be Scott.

“What do we say to him when he wakes up?” It’s a female voice this time, and Stiles is sure it’s familiar, but he can’t quite place it in his semi-conscious fog.

“Even in this state, Stiles isn’t going to believe whatever bullshit story we feed him,” Derek says. “Kali tried to kill him!”

“Speaking of, I thought she was dead,” the female voice says again.

“You, especially, should know by now nothing and no one stays dead around here, Erica,” Derek replies cryptically.

 _Erica_! That was the female voice, but what was she doing here?

“Dr. Deaton, how long is he supposed to be out?” Erica asks.

“I administered a mild analgesic to help with his pain while I prepared the serum,” Deaton replies.

“God. _Analgesic_? Just say painkiller,” Derek grumbles angrily.

Stiles wants to laugh at that, though Deaton steadfastly ignores the remark. “He should be coming around any minute.”

True to Deaton’s word, Stiles feels much more alert now, so he takes that as his cue to blink open his eyes. He’s inside an examination room in the clinic, covered with a warm wool blanket and lying on a silver table he imagines a whole host of animals have occupied before him. He props himself up on his elbows and twists around to confirm no one else is in the room with him, but whatever Deaton gave him must still be coursing through his system—or maybe it’s purely Stiles’ natural clumsiness—because one of his elbows slips across the table with a squeak, and without warning, he loses his balance and spills onto the floor.

It’s a battle for Stiles to untangle his limbs from the blanket as he climbs onto his feet again, using the exam table for support. He has just enough time to register he’s shirtless and someone has dressed the wounds from his brief scuffle with Kali when Derek, Erica, and Scott all clamber into the room, most likely alerted by the sudden commotion.

“You’re awake!” Erica announces, happy and relieved in equal measure.

Then Scott takes careful steps forward, like he’s approaching a frightened animal. “How’s your head?”

Stiles is suddenly aware for the first time that the intense pain he’d felt before passing out is gone completely. Whatever his face is doing must communicate as much to Scott because he smiles, visibly pleased.

Finally, Stiles’ eyes land on Derek, who is wearing a new shirt—there’s no way his old one could have survived after everything it had been through—and has his arms crossed over his chest while he leans back against the wall. It’s a deliberate attempt to appear relaxed, but he’s much too tense all over to be convincing. Most shocking of all, he is the perfect image of health, with no gaping wounds, cuts, or bruises anywhere on his body. “ _Dang_ ,” he drawls, drawing out the word. “How long was I out?”

Erica and Scott follow Stiles’ line of sight, and it’s Erica who laughs and answers first. “Only a couple hours. And, by the way, you’re never allowed to hang up on me when a homicidal maniac is coming after you.”

Stiles resists the urge to note that the homicidal maniac showed up _after_ Stiles hung up.

“ _Now_ we’re going with the truth?” Derek mutters incredulously.

Erica shrugs sheepishly, but Stiles takes a step back and says, “Yes, we’re going with the truth. No more lies. Either you tell me what’s going on, and what I’ve supposedly forgotten, or I’m out of here.” He wiggles his toes and glances down at his bare feet. “Where the hell are my shoes?”

Scott slips out of the room and returns holding Stiles’ worn out pair of Adidas. “I thought you’d be more comfortable while you were sleeping,” Scott offers by way of an explanation.

Stiles snatches the shoes out of his hands and plops down on the ground to shove his feet into them without further ado. “Well?” he says, raising his eyebrows expectantly as he tugs at his shoelaces. “Who’s gonna tell me what’s going on? Or do I need to almost die again before anyone will say anything?”

Derek, of all people, hangs his head at the barb.

“Guys, can’t we tell him?” Erica pleads. “I mean, with that stuff Deaton gave him, it should be okay now, right?”

“It’s only temporary,” Derek points out.

“So?” Erica says, tone challenging. “We can just give him more.”

“This isn’t like his Adderall,” Derek snaps. And how do they know about Stiles’ medication?

“No, Derek’s right,” Scott says, settling the matter. “The serum isn’t supposed to be a permanent solution. Its potency wears off after a while. Deaton only gave it to him so we could treat him without his brain melting out of his ears.”

“What?!” Stiles yelps.

“Not literally,” Erica hastily assures him.  
  
“Well,” Scott trails off, implying that _yes, literally_.

Erica pulls a face. “Yeesh!”

Stiles has lost his patience. “Stop talking about me like I’m not in the room. Someone just tell me what’s going on. And what’s so huge and important that I’ve forgotten?”

Scott appears to have a silent conversation with Derek and Erica; it involves a lot of pursed lips, flailing arms, and wiggling eyebrows. A moment later, Scott shrugs and answers resignedly with one simple word: “Us.”

Stiles blinks in confusion. “Come again?”

“You forgot us,” Scott explains. “Just about every person you’ve ever loved or cared about—your friends, the pack, _your dad_ —you simply woke up one morning and forgot everything.”

It feels like all the air rushes out of the room in that instant. “My dad?” Stiles repeats, his voice small and fragile. “But my dad’s—” As far as he can recall, he’s never known his father. It never really bothered him before because you can’t miss what you’ve never had. He’s yearned for the _idea_ of a father in the past, but he doesn’t have an actual person to miss. And yet, Stiles swears he can feel his heart crack upon realizing he not only has a father, but the man might be somewhere nearby right now.

“You don’t need to tell him what he can’t actually remember,” Derek sharply reprimands Scott.

“I have a dad?” Stiles asks brokenly. Because if it’s true, if he really does have a father, how could he _abandon_ Stiles? Then another thought strikes him as he glances at Scott. “My mom?” he asks hopefully.

Scott’s face closes off, and he looks as though he might cry. He shakes his head solemnly and says, “I’m sorry, Stiles.”

That should be okay, but at the same time, it’s not. Stiles’ mother died when he was younger, and nothing about that has changed. But he still remembers the pain of losing her. He misses her every single day. So, discovering that his father, a man he doesn’t even remember, is alive instead? It can’t possibly compare with the memories he has of his mother.

“Where is he?” Stiles asks. Then his resolve strengthens, and he says more forcefully, “Where were you? All of you! Something happened to make me forget everything, and you all decided to ditch me?”

Scott gasps, clearly appalled by the very thought. “What? No!”

“No?” Stiles echoes cynically. “Then where were you? The only person who stuck around was Erica, and she was lying to me up until last week.” Erica’s eyes look wide and remorseful. “So, what gives? Huh? How long was this sick joke supposed to last?”

“Dammit. You’re smarter than this. Think for one moment, Stiles. _Think_!” Derek shouts in frustration. “You forgot about everyone you loved. _Everyone_ ,” he says, voice cracking slightly. “Do you honestly think so little of your own judgment that every single person you ever cared about—every single person you let into your life—really forgot about you the moment you forgot about them?”

Derek makes a good point. The way he appears to be staring straight into Stiles’ soul certainly helps to make his case. “Make me understand, then,” Stiles implores. “Because nothing is making sense.”

“We tried to stay with you. We’ve worked tirelessly to help you remember,” Scott says, taking charge once more. “But whenever someone from the pack got near you, you’d be completely incapacitated by these practically paralyzing headaches. Your blood was literally boiling your brain. After a while, we decided leaving you alone was the best thing for you,” Scott argues. “We didn’t want you to be in pain.”

Stiles shakes his head as he tries to digest the new information. “So…so Erica’s not a member of this _pack_?” he asks, noting he hasn’t experienced any blinding headaches in her presence. Then he blinks as something dawns on him. “Wait. Pack? As in _pack of wolves_?”

“Werewolves,” Scott, Derek, and Erica say in unison.

Stiles shoots them a withering glare. “You’re all werew—” Then his eyes grow round as a preposterous thought strikes him. “Holy God. Am _I_ a werewolf?”

Scott snickers unapologetically at the look on his face. “That, you are not,” he affirms. “We are,” Scott says, gesturing with a hand to Erica, Derek, and himself, “but you’re not.”

Stiles sighs in relief, but his respite is short-lived. Because he may not be a werewolf, but—“I’m a spark,” he says, vocalizing his thoughts.

“Yep,” Scott confirms with a nod. “You’re a spark.”

“What did I just say about not telling him what he doesn’t already know?” Derek grouses as Scott winces at his slip-up.

Stiles scowls at Derek. “I may not know what it is, but Kali called me a spark right in front of you,” he points out. “It’s not exactly a pet name. I was going to ask about it sooner or later.”

“Plus, his hands were glowing blue when he got here,” Scott adds enthusiastically. “Something must’ve triggered his powers.”  
  
“Powers?” Stiles blanches as he stares down at his hands. He can’t distance them further than the length of his own arms, obviously, but it’s frightening to think they could go off like sparklers at any given moment. “What’s a spark?” Stiles asks warily, recalling with vivid detail the way Kali had winked out of existence the moment his so-called powers had hit her. “Is it—am I dangerous?”

“It’s nothing bad. On the contrary, in fact.” They all turn their attention to a dark-skinned bald man in a lab coat who briskly walks into the room to bring Stiles a clean, white cotton shirt.

“Dr. Deaton, I presume?” Stiles says as he pulls on the proffered shirt, glad to be fully clothed again.

Deaton offers him a curt nod. “Sparks act as conduits between the supernatural and human worlds,” he continues. “As such, you’re among the only beings on Earth who can create energy.”

“I don’t understand how that’s the opposite of bad,” Stiles says. “And besides, I’m pretty sure energy can’t just be created. It’s borrowed or something. There’s supposed to be a balance, isn’t there?”

“Not necessarily for sparks,” Deaton explains as he tinkers with a tray of vials on the counter. “Sparks walk the line between worlds, so your powers operate on a different frequency, if you will. A spark’s concept of balance operates outside of typical, earthly ideas regarding energy. In a way, you are both balance and imbalance.”

Stiles thinks about that for a minute—past the fact that it all sounds like bullshit, and past the fact that it scares him how Deaton talks about sparks like they aren’t humans.

If his powers had killed Kali, is that the reason he’d been able to save Derek? Is that the _balance_ Deaton’s referring to? Except, that doesn’t really make sense either. Stiles didn’t do much to save Derek. He’d staunched the bleeding from his wound, but technically, someone else had saved his life after Stiles passed out at the clinic.

But even if he didn’t save Derek’s life today, he did, in fact, save his life in the bakery, one week ago. Was Kali’s death some sick way to balance out Stiles’ actions to save Derek? Was there nothing special about Derek, after all? Because now it seems Stiles is the only one with bona fide superpowers.

“Uh, Stiles?” Scott calls, waving a hand in front of his face. “You okay, buddy?”

“I killed Kali,” Stiles blurts out.

Everyone in the room gapes at him for a few seconds, and Stiles can’t really blame them. It’s not every day someone confesses to committing a murder.

Derek comes forward and crouches down a little to catch Stiles’ eyes. “What are you talking about?” he asks. “You said she was gone.”

“Because I killed her,” Stiles responds miserably. “With these,” he adds, turning over his palms, and then squeezing them into fists for fear that they might go off.

Derek’s brow furrows with concern. “That’s not how it works,” he says, eyes flicking up to Deaton for assistance. “That’s not how it works, right?”

Deaton frowns as he gently uncurls Stiles’ fists to examine his hands. Stiles isn’t sure what the vet is looking for; his hands don’t look any different than they did this morning.

“ _Deaton_ ,” Derek presses when the man takes too long for his liking.

“There isn’t a science to this,” the vet replies tersely. Then he turns back to Stiles and says, “Can you describe what happened?”

Stiles swallows nervously and nods. “Kali was getting ready to impale Derek on my rolling pin—”

Erica does a poor job of stifling laughter, and both Stiles and Derek glare at her.

“What? You can’t tell me you didn’t hear that,” she insists, still giggling gleefully.

Stiles huffs. “ _Anyway_ , I saw what Kali was going to do. I thought Derek was about to die, and I was too far away from him to stop or distract Kali. I panicked, and I just reached out like this,” Stiles says, stretching out his arm but making sure his palm faces away from anyone in the room, “and then I screamed or something. And then blue light just rushed out of my hand like…like…” he sighs, frustrated. “I’m not sure like what. I can’t describe it. I mean, it was light, I guess? Because it was glowing. But there was a force to it as well because I could feel it.” Stiles shrugs helplessly. “I dunno. I know that doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes perfect sense, actually,” Deaton states calmly. “You’re hemorrhaging magical energy.”

When Deaton doesn’t offer further clarification, Derek growls a little, and Stiles feebly mutters, “I take it that’s bad?”

Deaton takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “It’s not good.”

Derek rolls his eyes so hard, Stiles fears his eyeballs are in danger of spinning into orbit.

“How do I stop?” Stiles asks. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone else. Rather, he doesn’t want to _kill_ anyone else. Because seriously, how is this his life? He shouldn’t have to worry about having killed one person, let alone potentially killing more than one person. “Please,” Stiles says, aiming a beseeching gaze at the vet. “Tell me you know how to stop this.”

“At this point, it isn’t any secret someone has taken something very dear from you,” Deaton says, clearly referencing Stiles’ missing memories. “To stop your magic from leaving you against your will, you must learn to control your magic once again.”

 _Again_? That would imply Stiles had control over it before. It would mean Stiles _knew magic_ before. Like, as recently as _two years_ before. It means Stiles could have been casting spells like a freakin’ Hogwarts graduate this entire time.

_Yer a wizard, Stiles!_

“Geez, it’s like pulling teeth with this guy,” Erica snarks, bringing Stiles back into the conversation. “How does he learn to control his magic again?” she asks, voicing the question on everyone’s mind.

“He already knows how,” Deaton replies. “He must simply remember.”

“Oh, is that all?” Stiles scoffs. “If I haven’t remembered anything in two years, how do you expect me to remember one specific thing now?”

“You weren’t actively trying to remember two years ago,” Deaton argues. “Now that some of your memories have resurfaced and you’re aware something is amiss, it should be easier than before to access your missing memories.”

“Okay,” Stiles replies uneasily, “but I’m not exactly able to pick and choose what I’m remembering. By the way,” he adds as an afterthought, “remind me to ask one of you what the hell a nogitsune is later.” He doesn’t miss the dark looks exchanged between Derek and Scott.

“You make a good point,” Deaton agrees, pulling up a chair. “But I think Scott might be able to help speed up the process by moving some of your memories to the surface of your mind.”

As if on cue, Scott brings up a curled fist, and when he flicks out his fingers in one sharp action, Stiles notices Scott now has claws instead of nails at the ends of his fingertips.

“Take a seat,” Deaton says, nodding at the chair before him.

“Uh…” Stiles backs away, nervously eyeing Scott’s claws. “Are you trying to scare me into remembering?” he babbles anxiously. “Are you literally going to dig the memories out of my brain?”

Deaton smiles calmly, which only makes him look like a crazy person at the moment. It doesn’t make matters any better when he answers, “Yes. Precisely.”

It takes so long for them to coax Stiles into the chair that Erica agrees to drive back to the bakery so that she can take care of the prep work for the next day’s morning rush. Stiles protests at first, but she insists it’s the least she can do to begin making up for lying to him for so long, even if she continues to claim she simply couldn’t have told him the truth. Although Stiles is still on the fence about that, he reluctantly accepts her help; he could use the break, if it’s actually possible to call _this_ a break.

“Let me get this straight,” Stiles says for what feels like the hundredth time. “Scott’s going to bury his claws into my neck, right around my very human, very fragile spinal column, and he’s going to _supernaturally_ extract my memories?”

Scott smiles and nods. “Exactly.”

“You’re nuts,” Stiles states flatly. Deaton and Scott have tried repeatedly to explain the process to Stiles, but the more information they give him, the less Stiles wants to do this.

“When executed correctly, it’s a perfectly safe procedure,” Deaton promises.

“Perfectly safe?” Stiles snorts derisively. “You told me it has the possibility to paralyze me permanently!”

If Deaton were the type of person to groan, Stiles thinks he would at this point because they’re circling back to the beginning of this argument now, where they need to start convincing Stiles all over again.

Patiently, Deaton begins anew. “You need to remember how to control your magic,” he lays out. “You need to remember before your powers are out of control completely. This,” he waves a hand in Scott’s direction, “is how I propose we go about moving forward.”

Stiles _is_ the type of person to groan, so he does. “What I don’t understand is if it’s so simple for Scott to jam his fingers into my neck to get me to remember that I apparently have magic, why didn’t you do this two years ago to get me to remember everything else?”

“Because Scott didn’t know what he was doing back then,” Derek cuts in. Scott gives him a dirty look, but he doesn’t deny it. “Nothing is cut and dry when the supernatural is involved. We weren’t sure if another werewolf removed your memories, or if you were under a spell that was blocking access to your memories, or if your condition was a result of something totally human. In fact, we weren’t even sure until now that there were memories to retrieve at all.”

“And you weren’t any help either, dude,” Scott points out. “You literally forgot _everything_ that had to do with the pack, and the pack was a huge part of your life. We couldn’t even get anything to trigger any shred of a memory. Not even a shred of a shred!”

“However, now that you are evidently remembering some things,” Deaton interjects, “I believe if Scott pulls some of your more prominent memories to the surface of your mind, it will give you something to latch onto.”

“Kinda like throwing you a line back to shore,” Scott supplies.

Stiles squints at them, unwilling to believe it’s all so simple. But that isn’t his most pressing concern. “You keep trying to sell me on this bizarre, invasive procedure. But you’re essentially clawing out my neck. That’s insane! Why on Earth should I trust you to do that?” Stiles asks. “Who are you guys to me? You’ve yet to explain that.”

Scott glances briefly at Derek before he reveals, “You’re my best friend.”

Stiles blinks, bewildered. “What—me?” He boggles for a moment over the fact that he forgot his own best friend, apparently. “How long have we known each other?”

“Since I peed on your sandcastle when we were three,” Scott says with a wry grin and a distant expression on his face as he ostensibly relives the memory.

But Stiles can’t come to terms with the confession. “I didn’t have any friends in school,” he admits quietly.

“ _We_ didn’t,” Scott corrects. “We were kinda dorks, but we always had each other. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had or ever will have, and it hasn’t been the same without you,” he finishes with an embarrassed shrug. He sounds completely genuine, though Stiles wonders if it’s possible for Scott to sound otherwise.

Stiles wracks his brain for any recollection of Scott and comes up dry. But when he tries to think back to grade school, he can tell something isn’t quite right. For instance, to a certain extent, he remembers third grade; he can recall his teacher, and trying to learn how to write in cursive, and being horrible at math. But there are no real details about his classmates, birthday parties, doing homework, getting to and from school. It’s as though he’s watching scenes from a movie about the third grade or something. Like someone only let him have the B-roll footage to his own life.

The memories from high school seem a little clearer, though he suspects it’s because he has Erica to serve as an anchoring point. He needs to figure out why he remembers her and not anyone else. When he tries to stretch for details beyond Erica, it’s hit or miss, like someone has placed censors on certain thoughts.

His only clear memories begin when he opened his bakery, two years ago, and he can’t fathom why he never realized such a discrepancy before. The missing bits, the gaps, the static fuzzing out his thoughts seem so obvious now. He doesn’t know what’s missing, but he can tell something is gone.

“How about you?” Stiles asks, eyes snapping to Derek. “You look too old to have gone to school with us.”

Scott gives him a knowing look, except Stiles doesn’t _know_ what that’s supposed to mean. “Oh, he’s your—”

“I’m how you found out about werewolves,” Derek cuts in, the words tumbling out of his mouth.

Stiles quirks an eyebrow and looks uncertainly between them both. “Why do I get the feeling that isn’t the whole story?”

“Because you’re suspicious of everything. You always have been,” Derek replies easily. “And if it weren’t for werewolves, you probably wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“Are you apologizing for existing?” Stiles asks in disbelief. When Derek doesn’t offer any sort of response, Stiles says, “Dude, I’m probably only alive right now because of you. Who cares what you are? You’re just a person, like any one of us.”

Derek smiles one of his quiet smiles in gratitude, and Scott is beaming so hard that Stiles swears he’s getting misty-eyed. “It’s good to know you’re still the same inside,” Scott warbles.

“Yeah, yeah. Get a hold of yourself,” Stiles says. Though in all honesty, he’s relieved to hear he’s still generally the same person, with or without his memories. There is an indescribable comfort found in that constant. “Hey, do me a favor and slather on some anti-bac before you go digging around my brain.”

“So, we’re doing this?” Scott asks excitedly, getting into position behind Stiles’ chair.

“We might as well,” Stiles replies, though his tone is not nearly as resigned as his words. “I’m still not sure about any of this, but I think I’ve heard enough. And—” Stiles cuts himself off. He feels like he can be open in front of Scott and Derek, but at the same time, he’s not sure he wants to make bald statements about his emotions so soon. “It’s weird,” Stiles says instead, “but I can feel it. I can _feel_ the missing memories. Like I’ve reached into a container and grabbed onto a shiny object, but I can’t withdraw my hand so long as I’m holding onto that object.” He shakes his head, perplexed. “Where did I get _that_ metaphor?”

Derek looks amused. “ _Where the Red Fern Grows_ ,” he replies.

Stiles considers that for a moment. “I think I hated that book.”

“You did,” Derek agrees, smirking.

Scott stares between the two of them with an odd expression Stiles can’t quite decipher, and Deaton interrupts the moment as he scrapes another chair across the floor. He sets it in front of Stiles and says, “Derek, have a seat.”

Derek does as he’s told and holds out his hands, palms facing up. When Stiles raises his eyebrows in question, Deaton explains, “Even when done correctly, I regret to inform this process will not be pleasant. Derek will serve as an anchor for you.”

Because of course it’d be too much to ask for the terrifying supernatural mind whammy he’s voluntarily putting himself through to be _pleasant_. “Swell,” Stiles declares, and then he slaps his palms down onto Derek’s. “Ow!” They both separate immediately and clutch their hands to their own chests.

Derek recovers first and rests his hands, palms up, on his knees again, though Stiles is sure his hands must also be tingling from the way he keeps curling in and stretching out his fingers.

“Was that my _spark_?” Stiles asks, fearful of the answer. He hadn’t been paying attention to his hands—hadn’t noticed if a shower of blue sparks had burned into Derek’s palms.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Derek snaps as he immediately forces his fingers to stop twitching. “It was static electricity.” Then he glances up and says, “Scott, you ready?”

Scott nods as Stiles gingerly places his hands in Derek’s once more. This time, not even the barest crackling of energy passes between their hands. All Stiles can feel is the too-warm temperature of Derek’s palms against his own. He offers an experimental squeeze, and Derek returns it with a smile Stiles thinks is meant to put him at ease. Oddly enough, it does.

Deaton places himself a few steps away from them. “Deep breaths,” he advises.

“On three,” Scott says. “One…two…” And on three, Stiles feels five sharp pinpricks at the back of his neck. He grips Derek’s hands on instinct right before everything whites out.

The next time Stiles is aware of his surroundings, he’s panting desperately for breath, is drenched in sweat, and is cradled in Derek’s arms. It takes a moment for Stiles to come back to himself, but when he does, it’s to Derek rubbing soothing circles into his back as he shushes him like he’s a frightened child.

“At least I’m not paralyzed,” Stiles mumbles weakly.

The hand at Stiles’ back stills abruptly, then moves away. Stiles wants to whine a little at the loss; however, before he can, Derek’s hand comes into his field of vision, holding a bottle of water. “Slow sips,” Derek murmurs as he gently tips the bottle back to allow Stiles to rehydrate.

Stiles slowly catalogues his surroundings while he catches his breath. Deaton has left the room, and Scott is pacing anxiously behind the empty chair Stiles had occupied earlier. Most interestingly, the window that stretches across the far wall reveals the sky is pitch black now, which makes him wonder just how much time he’s lost.

Eventually, Stiles peels himself off Derek’s lap, grimacing apologetically at the smelly sweat stains he’s probably left all over the man’s clothes. Once Derek has helped him return to his seat, Stiles needs to take deep, steadying breaths, inexplicably exhausted. Finally, he manages to croak out, “Did it work?”

Scott sighs in defeat. “No.”

“What happened?” Stiles asks. “All I remember is a flash of white, and then waking up on Derek just now.”

He’s surprised when Scott curses aloud. “That flash of white was supposed to be a rush of memories, so I don’t know what to say. All the memories are there. I was able to see them at the surface of your mind. But something must be blocking them from you.”

“Like a spell?” Derek suggests.

“Maybe,” Scott allows, shrugging his shoulders. Then a bitter, frustrated laugh claws its way out of his throat. “The person who would know is Stiles—before.”

Derek frowns, unhappy with this answer. “At least we can say with certainty that a werewolf hasn’t tampered with his mind. That’s something, isn’t it?”

Stiles agrees—as much as he can with his limited knowledge—but Scott is more cynical about the situation. “It’s something, but it’s not enough. Someone’s cast a spell on him. How are we supposed to figure out who did this when our expert on magic is totally clueless?”

Stiles is still gawking at being referred to as an expert on magic when Deaton rounds the corner holding a syringe in one hand. “We are not entirely clueless,” he says, catching Scott off guard. Scott looks slightly embarrassed by his mini-tantrum, and Stiles marvels at the curious relationship between the two men. Clearly, they work together, but in spite of Deaton’s cold, clinical demeanor, Scott responds to him more like a son than an employee, and Deaton has an understated yet undeniable paternal affection for Scott as well.

“I’m preparing a locator spell to track the origin of the memory spell on Stiles,” Deaton informs them. “That is, if it’s a spell at all.”

“Whoa. Like magical GPS?” Stiles asks, fascinated.

Deaton frowns, and it appears as though it takes every fiber in his being to admit, “Yes. Somewhat.” Scott catches Stiles’ eyes, and they silently share a laugh that feels familiar somehow.

“You are so not the friendly neighborhood veterinarian,” Stiles comments, impressed despite himself. “Are you a spark, too? Since you can do magic spells?”

“Druid,” Deaton states, like that’s supposed to mean anything to Stiles. “This isn’t _Harry Potter_. Spells and magic are not the same,” he says sternly. “Now, put out your arm, please.”

Stiles complies without thinking, and Deaton quickly sticks the syringe into Stiles’ arm, depressing its plunger to push a translucent orange substance into Stiles’ blood stream.

“ _Ow_ ,” Stiles grouses, annoyed at having been shot full of orange soda with no warning. (Okay, probably not orange soda. But still.) “What’d you do that for?”

“I was informed you have an aversion to needles,” Deaton explains. “So, I determined this technique would be most efficient.”

Stiles scowls at the vet, affronted. Privately, he admits the quick delivery meant he didn’t waste any time feeling queasy and anxious about the needle, but it’s the principle of the matter!

“The locator spell will be ready tomorrow evening, so return then. You will need another dose of this serum at that point, too,” Deaton says, pointing to a vial filled with more orange liquid.

“That’s the stuff that keeps my head from exploding while I’m around the pack?” Stiles asks, just barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He feels like he can’t get away with calling a group of friends or acquaintances “the pack” unless he’s a greaser in _The Outsiders_ or something.

“Correct,” Deaton responds. “But keep in mind its effectiveness will gradually wear off. It is why we couldn’t administer this serum to you until we were confident your memories still existed somewhere in your head, and that we were as prepared as possible to set things right again.”

Stiles nods. For once, that makes sense. No use in employing the shots if Stiles was busy being completely oblivious to the memories he’d lost. “How long will the shots work?”

“I would estimate at least four or five days. Maybe a week if you’re lucky,” Deaton guesses.

Stiles snorts. “I wouldn’t test our luck if I were you.”  
  
“Word,” Scott agrees.

Deaton isn’t so amused. “Once the shots lose their effectiveness for you, it will become much more difficult—if not impossible—for us to help you regain your memories. Please do not lose sight of that fact.”

Stiles’ face grows serious, and he offers the vet a curt nod.

“For the time being, I suggest Derek or Scott drives you home,” Deaton advises. “You’re in no state to drive after Scott’s failed attempt to retrieve your memories. The process is draining for werewolves, so you can’t be faring any better after nearly an hour under a trance.”

Stiles’ eyebrows shoot into his hairline. _An hour_? It had felt like only a second to him. Moreover, for how long he’s spent today passed out, he’s astonished he still feels so tired.

“I’ll drive you,” Derek says as he offers Stiles a hand and pulls him to his feet. “Scott, you should get some rest, too.”

Scott nods sluggishly, and Stiles realizes for the first time that the memory retrieval process was taxing on him as well, even though he’s a werewolf with the same kind of healing abilities as Derek. He resolves they all need some sleep so that they’re fresh again in the morning.

“Can you take me back to the bakery?” he asks Derek.

“I’m sure Erica has things covered,” Derek replies. “You should go home.”

Before Stiles can respond, Scott perks up a little and snickers. “That _is_ his home,” he says, amused for some reason.

Stiles finds interesting that this is news to Derek, considering Scott and Derek have been on the same page about everything else up until this point. How does Scott know where Stiles lives, while Derek doesn’t?

Derek balks at the revelation. “You live in a bakery?”

“I live in the loft _above_ a bakery,” Stiles says defensively, hackles rising in response to Derek’s judgmental tone. “Totally not the same thing.”

Derek purses his lips and glares at Scott for some reason. “Are you serious right now?” he demands quietly.

“I swear it wasn’t the plan,” Scott insists hastily. “It sort of just happened, and it worked out until now, didn’t it?” He doesn’t wait for Derek to respond before barreling on. “Admit it, Derek. It totally prevented, er,” Scott falters slightly, eyes flicking hesitantly to Stiles then back to Derek, “ _certain pack members_ from figuring out where Stiles was living.”

Stiles frowns, perplexed as to whom Scott’s talking about, and why he’d need to keep them from seeking out Stiles. Scott easily catches sight of his confusion. “Werewolf instincts,” he explains, which isn’t helpful in the slightest, given Stiles doesn’t know what werewolf instincts entail. Thankfully, Scott elaborates further. “Sometimes the urge to be around pack is overwhelming. That could’ve resulted in you fainting all over the place again, and we couldn’t have that,” Scott says reasonably. Much to Stiles’ chagrin, he doesn’t make any effort to clarify who ‘we’ might include. “Having you live in the same place you work helped to mask your scent under all the others from people who stop by your shop every day.”

“Hiding in plain sight,” Stiles surmises, nodding slowly while quelling the urge to refute the logic simply because it doesn’t make sense to him.

“Right,” Scott chirps, visibly pleased.

Derek only glowers at Scott for some reason, then begins walking towards the exit. Considering he’s Stiles’ ride, without any prompting, Stiles follows.

~ ~ ~

It’s 2:00 A.M., and Stiles is _famished_. He vaguely recalls feebly protesting as Derek carried him up to the loft, but he was out like a light as soon as his head hit his pillow. Upon waking, he’d discovered a note from Derek on his bedside table, telling him to call if he needed anything (and Stiles might’ve at least tried sending a text message if his phone hadn’t been destroyed in the fight with Kali) and to eat something because apparently, extended use of his spark will leave him hungry. Stiles thinks that’s kind of an understatement with how starved he’s feeling now.

He has a stick of string cheese in his mouth as he washes out some bowls and pans at the sink so that he can use them to make…something. He’s not sure yet what, but he’ll figure it out. He stares aimlessly out the window while his hands move on autopilot. He admires the velvety smoothness of the dark night sky, the twinkling of the stars, the moon in the shape of a broken fingernail—and _Derek Hale in a tree_.

Stiles gawks, and then he curses when he realizes he’s dropped the string cheese down the drain. “What the hell are you doing out there?” he shouts through the closed window.

Derek doesn’t offer an explanation, ostensibly because he knows Stiles wouldn’t be able to hear it anyway. He’s dressed in tight black jeans, large boots, and a black leather jacket, none of which can be comfortable to wear while perched on a tree the way he is.

Stiles slides the window up and pops out the screen. “You gonna stay out there all night?”

Derek wordlessly slinks across a long, sturdy branch with grace to rival a cat’s and slides inside in one smooth motion. He hops off the counter and closes the window as Stiles asks, “How long have you been out there?”

Derek blinks. “All night,” he says, like it’s totally normal.

“Dude, that is so creepy and _weird_!” Stiles exclaims.

“No, it’s not. People are trying to kill you,” Derek states matter-of-factly. “It’s a practical precaution.”

“When all this is over, we’re getting you new hobbies,” Stiles informs him.

“I was just—”

“Nope!” Stiles shouts, cutting him off. “I will not be Edward Cullen’d. I don’t need you hanging like a lemur outside my bedroom window while I sleep.”

“I wasn’t hanging like a lemur,” Derek mumbles. If asked, Stiles would definitely classify the look on his face as a pout.

“You hungry?”

Derek shrugs a shoulder.

“Well, I’m starved,” Stiles says as he retrieves two Tupperware containers from the fridge. One contains already formed dough, while the other holds cooked ground beef leftovers from taco night. “You ever had _char siu bao_?”

That seems to unstick Derek’s tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Yeah, actually,” he says, grinning fondly. “You used to experiment with different cuisines, and you made this dish all the time. The buns are easy to transport, so the pack really liked them for that reason.”

Stiles turns away from Derek and smiles furtively, oddly delighted with the easy conversation. “I get to meet this pack soon, don’t I?” Stiles asks as he divides the dough into a dozen equal portions. Then he begins flattening each miniature ball of dough into small, circular disks and adds, “You guys keep talking about this pack like I know them. And I understand that I don’t have my memories of them, so it shouldn’t matter whether I meet them now or next week or whatever. But,” Stiles ducks his head, a little embarrassed by his admission, “I’d really like to meet them closer to now.”

Derek takes a seat at the small kitchen table and says, “They want to see you as well.”

“Can they met us at Deaton’s tomorrow?” Stiles asks hopefully.

“How about afterwards, for dinner?” Derek suggests instead. “Everyone has school or work obligations, but we should all be free at the end of the day.”

Stiles doesn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until he sighs in relief and nods enthusiastically. He’s not sure what to expect from the pack, but he’s excited by the prospect of having friends, as pitiful as that might sound. He’s always been a loner, but not necessarily by choice.

“Trust me when I say the pack would’ve been here sooner if they could’ve,” Derek says. “In fact, they nearly stampeded into your bakery last week. It was a _very_ near thing.”

Stiles furrows his brow. “Really? Why?”

“You must’ve said something that made Erica think you’d remembered everything, but she realized it was a false alarm almost as soon as she texted us all,” Derek explains.

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles says, drawing out the words as he recalls when he’d almost gotten Erica to spill the beans a week ago. “Did she get stuck with ‘Stiles duty’? Is that why she works at the bakery?” he asks. “I always wondered why she stayed on. Her hours are shit, and I can hardly manage to keep paying her for part-time hours.”

“We all wanted to be near you, but she applied to be your assistant once we figured out you could be around her without—” Derek stops abruptly.

“Without setting my brain on fire?” Stiles says flippantly.

“Yeah,” Derek grunts. “It isn’t customary to leave a wounded pack member alone, so one way or another, we would’ve figured out some way to keep an eye on you. We’re just lucky things worked out this way and you always had Erica nearby.”

Stiles thinks on that as he doles out a tablespoon of ground beef into each flattened portion of dough before twisting up the edges so that the dough forms a neat bun with what looks like a knot on top. Once all the buns are formed, he fills a pot with water and sets it on the stove. While he waits for it to start boiling, he says, “Can you tell me about the pack? Are you all werewolves?”

“Most, but not all,” Derek answers. “You already know about Scott, Erica, and me, of course. Then there’s Erica’s boyfriend—”

Stiles whips around from the stove and blurts out, “Boyd?”

“You remember Boyd?” Derek asks, astonished.

“Not the way you want me to,” Stiles says apologetically. “But I’ve met him! Well,” he hedges, “Erica never formally introduced me. Probably cuz she thought my head would explode. But I saw him a few times when he picked her up from work, and I asked about him once, and Erica said he was her boyfriend.”

“But that would mean—”

“ _Right_?” Stiles says, picking up on Derek’s thought. “When I was piecing everything together on my own at first, simply _thinking_ about Scott gave me these blinding migraines. But if Boyd is in the pack, it means this spell doesn’t affect my ability to be near him—” Stiles gasps, cutting himself off. “I can be near you, too!”

Derek looks veritably shocked at the revelation; clearly, it hadn’t occurred to him either.

“I didn’t realize it before because I was so consumed with figuring out which comic book you’d hopped out of,” Stiles says with a laugh. “But now that I think about it, I’ve had more contact with you than with anyone else in the pack before Deaton gave me that serum stuff. Besides Erica, of course. And I’ve thought about you _way_ more than I’ve thought about her or Scott.” He feels himself blushing and faces the stove again. “And, uh, no Derek Hale-induced migraines to report so far.”

“We should ask Deaton about this,” Derek says, all business. “Maybe he’ll know why you were able to be around only some pack members. At the very least, he might know what differentiates Erica, Boyd, and myself from the others.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says, waving a hand at him. “That’s for tomorrow. Now keep telling me about the pack.”

Derek huffs out a laugh at Stiles’ one-track mind and obliges. “Like I was saying, Boyd is a werewolf as well. And then there’s Isaac,” he adds, and Stiles can hear the smile in his voice. “You both bicker like siblings. It’s the worst.” But he chuckles, so Stiles can’t imagine it’s _that_ bad. “And then there’s Liam, who’s our youngest werewolf. And Malia—she’s my cousin, but she’s a werecoyote—”

“A werecoyote?” Stiles pulls a face. “Are those allowed in a wolf pack?” The water is boiling at this point, so Stiles places a few of the buns on a steamer basket and replaces the lid on the pot.

“Of course they are,” Derek says. “You’re not a wolf, and you’re in our pack.”

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles says, nodding. He’s still getting used to the idea.

“You actually went out with Malia for a while,” Derek notes with a smirk.

Stiles’ eyes widen. “Wow. Really?” He grins a bit, strangely satisfied. “Go me.”

Derek snorts with amusement. “It didn’t work out, but it was a mutual break-up. You both wanted different things.”

Stiles narrows his eyes skeptically, somehow unconvinced. “Yeah, okay,” he yields. “Go on.”

“We also have Kira, who is a kitsune. And Lydia, who is a banshee. And Jordan, who’s a hellhound _and_ a deputy, which has been surprisingly useful” Derek notes. “But all the non-werewolves are still working on managing their abilities because we don’t really have anyone who knows a lot about their respective supernatural heritages.” He shrugs his shoulders, an easy roll of the muscles at his back, then adds, “We’re figuring things out as we go.”

The first batch of buns finish steaming at this point, now twice as large as they were when they went in. Stiles puts in the second batch and pokes impatiently at the first batch while they cool enough for him to be able to eat one. “So, in this menagerie of a pack, am I the token human or something?”

“No, there are other humans. There’s Mason,” Derek says. “He’s Liam’s best friend and actually reminds me a little of you, back when we first met. And there was—”

“Hey, can a spark even be considered human?” Stiles suddenly asks. “Not that _not_ being a human is so terrible. You’re all right,” he says with a cheeky grin. “But, I dunno,” Stiles trails off, struggling to find words to express his thoughts.

“You’re human,” Derek says with certainty. “You’re a spark, but that doesn’t change your genetic makeup.” He thinks for a moment and adds, “Being a spark is like being Polish. Your spark is sort of like a trait. It’s a part of what makes you _you_.”

“That’s a nice sentiment,” Stiles says, “but I can’t help but feel like an alien or something. I mean, I just discovered I’m a stranger in my own life!”

“I know, Stiles,” Derek says consolingly, “and I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling. You’re taking all this better than I could.”

“I can’t promise an eminent meltdown isn’t right around the corner,” Stiles says with a self-deprecating laugh. “But all the scattered bits of evidence, and all the little coincidences and discrepancies and stuff are simply too much to ignore. That’s what I think about every time I’m overwhelmed by the fact that I’ve apparently been missing from my own life.”

“We’ll get this sorted,” Derek says with conviction. “You have my word.”

Despite Derek’s determination, Stiles isn’t entirely convinced. He has no trouble believing he’s lost his memories because he’s seen evidence of that; however, he’s seen no clear indication that it’s possible for him to retrieve those lost memories. Scott’s failed attempt to literally dig his memories out of his brain only cements Stiles’ doubt.

He glances up to discover Derek carefully studying his face. “Er, sorry,” Stiles stammers, suddenly self-conscious. “Sometimes I just get lost in my head.”

“You don’t have to lie on my count,” Derek says, somehow both gentle and direct in calling him out. “I can tell you’re worried, and I don’t blame you. But I promise we’ll do everything in our power to get your memories back.”

Stiles offers him an appreciative smile. “I suppose I can find comfort in that.” Then he prods at a steamed bun and deems it’s cool enough to eat. “Dig in!” he announces.

Half an hour later, they’re finishing the second batch of steamed buns straight off the stove. Derek indulges Stiles with more tidbits about the pack as they eat, which successfully lifts both their moods. But soon enough, Stiles begins to blink drowsily, which doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Sleep,” Derek says as he piles dirty dishes in the sink.

Stiles nods because that’s a brilliant idea. “Just leave those,” he says, waving a hand in the general direction of the sink. “I’ll get ‘em tomorrow.”

Derek smirks at him, looking judgmental.

“Oh, come on!” Stiles exclaims. “Don’t tell me you know my dishwashing habits, too!”

“Or lack thereof,” Derek mutters rather loudly. But it’s true. The kitchen in the bakery is immaculate, but in Stiles’ living quarters, the dishes never get washed until he needs to use them.

“Ugh, you’re the worst,” Stiles grumbles as he trudges over to the coat closet. “So, I only have a couple spare blankets,” he says, pulling them down from the top shelf, “but they should be fine if you wanna take the couch?”

Derek blinks at him owlishly.

“Unless you’re leaving,” Stiles says, hugging the blankets to his chest. “I just figured that if you’re staying, the couch would be better than the tree outside my window. Fewer splinters,” he says, snickering at his own joke.

“You’re sure you’re okay with me staying over?” Derek asks carefully.

And Stiles appreciates Derek not simply assuming something like that. Sure, Derek knows Stiles, but Stiles technically doesn’t know him anymore. Not really, anyway. And yet, for some unfathomable reason, he feels like he can trust Derek. He feels it in his bones.

Maybe that’s a development that occurs after someone gets impaled on a rolling pin while trying to save your life.

“Hey,” Stiles says, striking the air with a finger. “What’s gonna happen if some random hiker finds half a bloody rolling pin sticking out of the ground in the preserve?”

Derek looks taken aback, most likely unprepared for the abrupt change in topic. “Uh,” he stammers, “I don’t—it’s fairly deep into the woods, isn’t it?”

“I dunno,” Stiles says. “As far as I can remember, today’s the first time I’ve ever set foot inside that forest.”

Derek fidgets for a moment before squaring his shoulders and heading for the window.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Stiles says, scrambling to stop him from leaving. “You don’t need to go dig it out of the ground _now_ ,” he says, bemused. “No one’s gonna be hiking or jogging in the preserve right now. We can get it later.”

Derek eyes the window, then Stiles, then the pile of blankets. “It would only take me half an hour, at most, to sprint out there and—”

Stiles shakes his head in disbelief. “Stay.”

The word seems to freeze Derek in place. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Stiles insists. “I want you to stay.”

All the tension seems to drain out of Derek’s body. “Okay,” he concedes. “I’ll stay.”

Stiles feels unexpectedly pleased, and without another word, he piles the blankets onto the couch and fluffs a couple pillows for Derek as well.

Just as they’re drifting off to sleep—Derek on the couch, and Stiles across the loft in his own bed—Stiles says, “Hey, Derek?”

“Yeah?” Derek answers tiredly.

“When you eventually do leave the loft, you realize you can use the door, right?”

“Oh, my God,” Derek says with a groan.

“Seriously,” Stiles goes on. “I don’t know if it’s a werewolf thing? Windows? But, like, neighboring businesses are gonna freak if they see a tall, dark, and handsome stranger creeping through my window.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

Stiles grins to himself, feeling amused and light like he hasn’t in a long time. A few minutes pass in silence before he perks up again and says, “Hey, Derek?”

“ _Yeah_?” Derek groans, clearly anticipating more snark.

Softly, Stiles says, “I hope you guys have been okay these past two years.” The words come easily to him, now that the room is dark. “I don’t know what happened or what I missed. But thanks for looking out for me.” After a beat, he adds, “I hope you’ve been looking out for yourself, too.”

Derek doesn’t reply for so long that Stiles is sure the man has fallen asleep, but then he shifts on the couch, turning over and snuggling into his pillow. For a moment, Stiles thinks he won’t receive any kind of answer, but just as Stiles feels his own eyes slipping shut, he hears Derek murmur, “Goodnight, Stiles.”

It’s not really an answer, but Stiles takes comfort in knowing Derek heard him. Sometimes, that has to be enough.

Stiles closes his eyes and burrows under the covers. “Goodnight, Derek.”


	6. Chapter 6

Derek Hale is sitting on the front counter, casually licking the filling out of an Oreo (if it’s possible for Greek Gods to do such things _casually_ ), and Stiles can’t help but wonder how this is his life now. He can’t help but wonder if this is how his life could have been for the past two years! It’s all the more reason to get his memories back.

Derek is the perfect house guest—rather, _loft guest_. He’d gotten up before Stiles that morning, neatly folded his blankets and stacked the pillows on top of them, then let Stiles sleep in until the aroma of omelets and a fresh pot of coffee gradually woke him. Following breakfast, Derek had volunteered to do the dishes, then accompanied Stiles down to the bakery, happy to help in any way Stiles asked.

He still isn’t sure how a person like Derek ever could have fit into his life, but as long as Derek doesn’t mind, Stiles is happy to enjoy this. It’s nice not to be alone all the time. And on top of that, Derek sure is pretty to look at.

“Mmkay. Hand me an Oreo?” Stiles says, outstretched hand awaiting a cookie. “Thanks,” Stiles mumbles as he carefully places the requested Oreo on top of a chocolate cupcake that already has green frosting on it. Then he grabs a bag of yellow buttercream frosting and affixes a frosting tip to it. “Now, watch this,” he says, giving Derek a sidelong glance.

Derek focuses with rapt attention as Stiles pipes on what appears to be a yellow leaf to the outer edge of the Oreo. “Looks weird, right?”

Derek nods, scooting closer for a better vantage point.

“These aren’t going to be leaves, though,” Stiles says as he expertly pipes not leaves but _petals_ around the rest of the Oreo’s outer edge.

When he sees it, Derek’s mouth falls open a little in awe. “It’s a sunflower,” he marvels aloud. “How do you even think to do something like that?”

“I dunno,” Stiles says as he sets down the cupcake and carefully places a red M&M ladybug on top of the sunflower. “It doesn’t take much thought to put whatever on top of cupcakes. But you want to make sure the flavors all work together, y’know? The worst thing is when you’ve got non-edibles for decoration,” he says with a shudder. “I just want everything I make to be cohesive and creative.”

Just when Stiles begins to wonder how bored Derek must feel spending all his time watching Stiles do the same tasks over and over again, Derek says, “You’re doing well here, aren’t you?”

Stiles shrugs his shoulders. “I manage,” he replies, casting a puzzled look in Derek’s direction. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that—” Derek hops off the counter and starts pacing. “You’ve had this bakery for a couple years now, and it’s been going well.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles replies, unsure of what Derek’s getting at.

“Right,” Derek says. “But the thing is—and I know you don’t remember this—but the supernatural world brings with it a whole host of problems. One of the benefits of having a pack is we watch out for one another, but that can’t always keep everyone safe.”

“Why does it sound like you’re breaking up with me?” Stiles jokes warily.

Derek looks pained. “All I can think when I see you here,” he says, gesturing widely to the bakery at large, “is what kind of life you could have— _still_ have—without needing to worry about everything that accompanies the supernatural.”

“But I’m a spark,” Stiles says, stepping away from the cupcakes. He’s realized this isn’t a conversation he can have while also concentrating on his work. “You could argue I _am_ supernatural. It’s a part of who I am. Isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes, but—”

“But what?” Stiles challenges. “Are you trying to say it might be better if I don’t get my memories back?”

“Not better,” Derek contends. “Safer.”

Stiles gapes incredulously. “I don’t care how dangerous or creepy or weird the supernatural world is,” he declares. “I just found out someone took my memories. I’ll be damned if I let someone else decide whether or not I deserve to be a part of my own life!”

Derek mouths wordlessly for a moment, like he wants to say something but keeps convincing himself not to bring it up. When Stiles raises his eyebrows in question, Derek plaintively shakes his head and quietly says, “Okay.”

“Good,” Stiles says, huffing a sigh of relief as his ire dies down somewhat. After a few minutes of strained silence, he manages a small smile and adds, “I bet the supernatural world can get pretty scary, but us ‘normies’ have to put up with our share of problems, too. Last week, a wild man broke into my bakery and tied me up!”

“Oh, my God.” Derek sighs.

“It’s true!” Stiles insists, nodding emphatically.

“Shut up, Stiles.”

He does, still amused as he returns to his work. The tense atmosphere is effectively replaced with something easy and welcome again, and the rest of the day wears on peacefully. Derek makes an effort not to hover, but he seems endlessly fascinated by all of Stiles’ duties, no matter how mundane.

When there’s only half an hour left before Claudia’s Bakery closes for the day, he lets Derek borrow the jeep to fetch the bloody rolling pin from the preserve. Derek had protested at first, citing the fact that he knows Stiles hates it when other people drive his car. Be that as it may, Stiles argues that he’s not going to make Derek hoof it to the woods when he’s not even using the car at the moment. In time, he’s able to convince Derek to accept the keys.

It doesn’t take long for Stiles to get the shop cleaned up. The sunflower cupcakes are for a cotillion the following afternoon, so they’ve been stored safely on the shelf designated for outgoing deliveries, along with a couple cakes that are due to be picked up the next day. He sets out some blocks of butter and cream cheese to thaw and be ready for use the next day, then locks up the shop and waits outside for Derek to return so that they can head to Deaton’s together.

Stiles sits on the front steps and rests his elbows on his knees. He tries to appreciate the warmth radiating off the setting sun, and the cool breeze blowing in as day melts into twilight. He watches as the cars crowded around surrounding businesses gradually drive out of the shared parking lot. Brightly lit windows and neon signs wink out one by one, and Stiles begins to wonder what’s taking Derek so long. He thinks back to how Derek had suggested it might be better for Stiles not to get his memories back at all. What if this is Derek abandoning him to make sure that actually happens? After all, Stiles might be upset now, but once Deaton’s serum wears off, he’ll eventually forget that there’s anything to remember at all.

Could Derek be so cruel?

Stiles’ fingers itch to make a call or fire off a text, but he hasn’t had a chance to replace his phone yet. He contemplates precisely how stupid it would be to try to jog out to where Kali had chased him into the preserve the previous day. He’s no werewolf, but surely it can’t be _that_ far, can it?

“Excuse me. You’re Stiles, right?”

Stiles startles a little and squints as he peers up at an attractive brunette wearing a bright green cardigan over a black pencil skirt and sensible shoes. “Yeah, that’s me,” Stiles replies. “But Claudia’s Bakery is closed for the day,” he says apologetically. “We’ll open again tomorrow morning at 9:00 A.M. Maybe you can come back then?” Stiles gets up and extends his arm for a handshake. “What was your name? I can even put you down for an appointment so we can get you taken care of, first thing.”

The woman smiles, her eyes glinting with something Stiles can’t quite identify. “You can call me Jennifer,” she says, firmly squeezing Stiles’ hand. “But don’t trouble yourself with an appointment. That won’t be necessary.”

“Oh. Okay,” Stiles says. And when he tries to pull his arm back, he can’t. “Uh, I think I’m gonna need my hand back,” he says with a nervous chuckle.

Jennifer’s smile grows wider and wider until it _literally_ begins to crack at the corners of her lips. Her mouth appears to rip wide open, and Stiles flinches so hard he actually cowers a little. When he glances at Jennifer again, she looks nothing like the beautiful woman he’d been talking to mere moments ago. Her face is disfigured like nothing Stiles has ever seen before. She looks raw and shiny and pink all over, with long, bloody gashes slashed across her face. She looks _wrong_.

“What the—” Stiles yanks desperately at his arm, but Jennifer—or whatever this creature is—has an unyielding grip. “Let go!” he demands, pulling in vain at his arm. “Help!” he shouts. “Somebody hel— _ow_!” Stiles yelps, staring down in alarm. It feels as though something sharp has bitten the hand still trapped in Jennifer’s. Then, without warning, he senses energy leaving his body through his hand. He’s disoriented for a moment, unsure of what’s happening, until his hand begins glowing ever so slightly with what he now recognizes as his his spark energy. His muddled mind pieces together that Jennifer is trying to take his spark.

He still isn’t sure what it’s for or how he’s supposed to use it, but he refuses to allow one more thing to be stolen from him.

“Not today, you freakin’ axe wound!” he shouts. Then Stiles rears back and head butts Jennifer as hard as he can, crashing his forehead into her nose—or whatever that is on the center of her deformed face.

“Son of a— _ow_!” Stiles moans, rubbing sorely at his head, certain that he’s going to have a huge bruise by morning. Jennifer shrieks in anger, which causes Stiles to notice their connection has been severed. “Note to self: Don’t head butt supernatural creatures.” And with that, Stiles proceeds to do what he’s been doing far too much of for his liking: he runs for his life.

Stiles sprints around to the rear of Claudia’s Bakery so that he doesn’t need to risk Jennifer getting distracted by any pedestrians who might still be lingering near the surrounding businesses. He’s not sure where he’s going, but it doesn’t matter because suddenly, Stiles feels himself lifted off his feet, then pinned to a tree. It takes him a moment to register nothing and no one is holding him there. He struggles in a panicked frenzy to free himself, all to no avail.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Jennifer calls out in a taunting voice.

Stiles whips his head up to find her approaching him, arm outstretched and glowing an eerie blue similar to Stiles’ spark.

“HELP!!!” Stiles screams as loudly as he can. But either no one can hear him, or his cries are ignored. Stiles can’t help but curse himself for every time he’s heard a random scream in the distance and chalked it up to people being annoying or stupid. How many times were those screams because people actually needed help?

“Look, maybe we can talk about this,” Stiles babbles desperately. “I mean, you didn’t even try to talk to me. Maybe we can work something out. I don’t even know what you want.”

“Your spark,” Jennifer hisses, cutting straight to the chase.

“A woman who knows what she wants,” Stiles says feebly. “I can respect that.” He goes back to straining helplessly where he’s stuck to the tree behind him, but all he can manage to move are his hands and feet, which isn’t very useful. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Stiles chants under his breath, trying to remember what he’d been doing when his spark had engulfed Kali yesterday.

His emotions had been running high at the time, like they are now. That’s a given. And Kali had been trying to kill Derek, whose stupidly toned ass is nowhere in sight. Stiles remembers reaching out for him, hopelessly wishing he could be near him, close enough to help him, knock him out of the way, warn him in time— _something_!

Stiles roars in frustration and despair, and it takes a moment for him to recognize the sound isn’t coming from him entirely. “Derek!” he gasps. The man is standing a few yards behind Jennifer, fully wolfed out and clearly furious to discover Stiles is busy trying not to die _again_.

“I was hoping I’d see you again,” Jennifer says calmly, turning away from Stiles.

Derek growls at her in response. “Peter killed you. You’re supposed to be dead.”

Jennifer shrugs nonchalantly. “I am.”

“You will be,” Derek amends, like the drama queen he is. Seriously, what is it with all the theatrical banter that precedes a supernatural showdown?

“Why is it you seem to know everyone who’s interested in killing me?” Stiles quips.

Derek ignores him and charges head first at Jennifer, and she counters by stepping back into a defensive stance and throwing her hands up like she might be preparing to spar if it weren’t for her open palms. Just as her hands begin crackling with blue energy—with Stiles’ spark—the force pinning Stiles to the tree vanishes, and he abruptly drops to the ground.

“Derek, watch out!” Stiles shouts from where he’s sprawled on the ground. Thankfully, before the blue energy can leave Jennifer’s fingertips, Derek swiftly changes course, ducks under her arms and shoves into her hard, sending her crashing to the ground.

Stiles is still busy gawking while Derek doesn’t miss a step as he sprints past Jennifer, loops an arm around Stiles’ waist, and easily picks him up in a fireman’s carry as he takes them both deep into the woods.

“What—?!” Stiles blurts out as he flops around uselessly while Derek runs. When he’s eventually set back on the ground, Stiles flails a little and exclaims, “What’s the plan supposed to be? I didn’t bring a rolling pin this time, but I have a feeling that thing won’t need one to kill us!”

Derek cranes his neck around to scour the woods for Jennifer. When he determines the coast is clear for now, he turns back and announces, “She’s not real.”

Stiles splutters for a moment in disbelief. “Uh, she looked real. Well,” he rephrases, “she looked _un_ real. You really need a new friend circle, dude!”

Derek shakes his head and ignores Stiles’ snarky comments. “I got the rolling pin—the one from yesterday. But while I was in the preserve, I noticed something.” Stiles flails a little, impatient for the punch line. “There weren’t any footprints in the preserve.”

“What?!” Stiles asks, bewildered. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Kali’s feet,” Derek says, like that’s sufficient clarification. And when he realizes it’s not, he adds, “She was barefoot, and—”

“And there were no footprints,” Stiles finishes, nodding in understanding. “Okay, what does that mean?” he asks. “Are you sure they didn’t get wiped away or something?”

“Our footprints were there,” Derek says. “Hers were not.”

“I ask again,” Stiles says. “What does that mean? I hate to break it to you, but you guys don’t exactly operate like humans. Is there a supernatural or magical reason she wouldn’t have any footprints?”

“Maybe. I don’t know,” Derek says. “But I think it means she’s not real.”

“The way she handed us our asses seemed pretty real to me,” Stiles notes dryly.

Derek rolls his eyes and doesn’t respond to the sarcasm. “You said your spark killed her,” he says, changing gears. “How?”

“What does it matter? Dead is dead,” Stiles replies. When Derek only raises his eyebrows and stares expectantly, Stiles sighs and tries again. “I dunno,” he stammers, “my spark just zapped her, and she vanished.”

Derek shakes his head, though he appears confident now. “That’s not how your spark works.”

“And how would you know?” Stiles asks, tone challenging. “You don’t have a spark.”

Derek’s about to reply, but the sound of rustling leaves behind them reveals that Jennifer has found them once again.

“Go hide,” Derek commands.

“I’m not leaving you alone with her,” Stiles protests indignantly. “I know I couldn’t take her in a fight, but you’re not exactly good at this either. I can help!”

Derek growls at him then, though it’s out of frustration. “Just hide!” he repeats, exasperated. “If I’m right, she isn’t real; however, she’ll certainly be able to inflict damage, and you can’t heal the way I can.”

Stiles stares him down but relents within seconds because he’s right. Without another word, he creeps further into the woods, placing a few trees between himself and Derek, but not so many that he isn’t able to keep an eye on the ensuing confrontation.

“There you are,” Jennifer says once she emerges in the clearing, passing for human once again. “But where’s your little spark?”

“Nowhere you’ll find him,” Derek snaps angrily.

Jennifer narrows her eyes and surreptitiously scans the area. Stiles crouches low and keeps quiet, trying his best to avoid detection. After a moment, Jennifer returns her focus on Derek and declares, “He’s close.”

Stiles’ eyes go wide as he takes another few steps deeper into the woods. He wishes he could figure out how this stupid spark of his works so that he could help Derek in the fight he knows is about to break out. According to Deaton, he’d had a handle on his spark before, so why is it so difficult to control now?

“Derek, just give him up,” Jennifer beseeches him. “That boy’s spark is turning dark. It will destroy him if he keeps it. You have to know that,” she states, slinking closer. “Let me take that burden from you.”

“You’re a dark druid,” Derek spits, not having any of it. And Stiles vaguely recalls learning that Deaton is a druid, too. Maybe he’s not dark, though? Yet Stiles’ spark _is_ dark?! Everything is so confusing! “It wouldn’t be a burden to you,” Derek continues. “A dark spark would only strengthen you.”

“And what’s so horrible about that?” Jennifer asks with a simpering smile. Stiles blinks, and Jennifer is suddenly cozied up to Derek, backing him against a tree and holding him there only with her presence. She gazes up at Derek through her eyelashes and says, “I seem to recall you liked my strength.”

Stiles balks because it sounds like she’s implying that she and Derek had been intimate in the past. Then, what really sets Stiles on edge is when Derek appears to shrink into himself. “Stop,” Derek says quietly, unable to meet Jennifer’s gaze.

“All I want is the spark,” Jennifer says, pressing in closer. “What good is he to you, anyway?”

“ _Stop_ ,” Derek repeats with more force.

“You know as well as I that the spark hasn’t been yours for a long time,” Jennifer taunts as she rests her chin on Derek’s shoulder. He flinches, straining to get away from her. “Tell me where he is. Do this _one_ thing for me, and—”

“Hey!” Stiles shouts, stepping out from behind a tree. “He told you to lay off. What part of _stop_ don’t you understand?”

To her credit, Jennifer finally steps away from Derek, though it’s because all her focus is on Stiles now. After all, he’s the person she had wanted.

“Oh, shit,” Stiles mutters, empty-handed and clueless in the face of an attacker once again.

“Dammit, Stiles!” Derek curses, whirling around to face him. “Get out of here!”

Jennifer grits her teeth, then waves a hand at Derek, sending him flying through the air until he collides hard with a tree. His body crumples to the ground, knocked out cold.

“Derek!” Stiles shouts, instinctively reaching out for him. Just like the day before, the movement causes a stream of electric blue energy to burst from Stiles’ fingertips. It curves through the air, and he watches in shock as it heads for Jennifer. This time, however, instead of engulfing her completely and erasing her from existence, Stiles’ spark gathers into Jennifer’s waiting hand in a neat ball of glowing energy.

Stiles blinks and staggers back. He didn’t think there could be anything worse than his spark killing someone, but as Jennifer sneers at him and glances thoughtfully between Derek and Stiles, he realizes he was sorely mistaken. Derek is totally defenseless, and Stiles can’t even count on his spark to take out Jennifer the same way it had destroyed Kali.

“Don’t hurt him!” Stiles begs as he cautiously approaches Jennifer with his hands up in surrender. “ _Please_.”

Jennifer views him with a scrutinizing gaze as she tosses Stiles’ gathered spark in her hand like it’s a baseball. “What would you give to ensure his safety?”

Stiles’ eyes shift to Derek, to where his hair is matted with blood. He’s unable to gauge the severity of the wound, so he can’t guess how long it might take for him to heal. But Stiles doesn’t have time to wait. Jennifer is unpredictable, and Stiles can’t even use his spark against her. Derek’s out for the count, and Stiles is out of options.

“Take it. You can have my spark,” Stiles says, shoving his palms at her because apparently that’s how she siphons energy from him. “Just don’t hurt him.”

He knows he’d never recover if a fight over his spark were the reason for Derek’s demise. Stiles has lived two years of his life without it, and all his troubles started the moment his spark resurfaced. He doesn’t think he’ll miss it. What he is certain of, however, is that it’s a bad idea simply to hand it over to Jennifer. But with Derek’s life on the line, Stiles resolves to accept whatever consequences may come.

“Take it,” he insists, warily edging closer to Jennifer.

She looks suspicious. “Something’s different about you.”

Stiles scoffs. “Something’s _way_ different about you, but you don’t see me making a big deal about it.” Jennifer glowers at the poorly veiled insult. “Fair trade,” Stiles states. “You take my spark, then leave us alone. Deal?”

Jennifer checks on Derek, who still hasn’t moved. Then she turns to Stiles again and smirks. “Deal,” she says, punctuating the word by snatching up both Stiles’ hands with her own. “Hang on tight.”

Stiles feels that sharp sting again, like static electricity but much worse. The tips of his fingers go numb, and when Stiles looks down at their hands, he sees an orb of blue light pulsing where they’re joined. It’s unsettling to watch as he’s drained of his spark. It’s not like the spark is blood or anything, but it’s still a part of him, something clearly harvested _inside_ of him. And now it’s leaving him.

The process starts out painless enough, like before…until it’s not.

He begins to feel lightheaded and dizzy. “What—?” Stiles startles when his knees threaten to buckle. He’s sure he’s going to throw up if he doesn’t pass out first.

“Stupid boy,” Jennifer murmurs, looking victorious and high on the power she’s draining from him.

Stiles reflexively tries to pull his hands free to no avail. He shudders to think this monster will be the last thing he’ll ever see. What’s to stop her from killing him after this? As his vision blurs, his eyes search wildly for Derek, desperate for whatever comfort he might gain in the proof that he remains relatively unharmed.

“Derek,” Stiles whimpers as his legs finally give out and Jennifer eases them onto the ground.

“Shh,” Jennifer hushes him. Stiles doesn’t know if she’s trying to be comforting or cruel. He just finds the action unnerving and wants to cry. His entire body feels like it’s numb and on fire, all at once, and he can’t find the strength to react to any of it. Everything is spinning while his world begins to darken, and in spite of the contact he maintains with Jennifer, he feels like he’ll float away at a moment’s notice.

Then all of the sudden, Jennifer releases him, and everything stops. Stiles crumples to the ground, much too weak to support his own weight. Oddly enough, he feels anchored to the entire planet now, like something has been set right. The sensation is the complete opposite of how he’d felt mere seconds ago.

He cranes his neck back as far as he can and really does want to vomit when he sees four bloody gashes running across Jennifer’s neck. They’re claw marks. _Werewolf_ claw marks.

Jennifer makes a gurgling noise as she attempts to speak, regardless of her fatal wound. She manages to croak out a raspy, “No!” And then her eyes roll back into her head as she’s engulfed by a growing sphere of blue energy that Stiles recognizes as his spark. It crackles for a short time before it diminishes into nothingness and reveals that Jennifer’s body has vanished with it.

“How tedious,” remarks a new voice. “I really wish certain people would learn to _stay_ dead.”

Before Stiles can even wonder at who has killed Jennifer and inadvertently saved him, he feels a surge of energy overwhelm his system as it floods his body. It’s his spark returning to him. He doesn’t know how he knows. He just does. He can feel it.

It’s a heady rush, and it feels just as inundating as when Jennifer had caused his spark to leave him all at once. He’s brimming with energy now, but the whole ordeal has left him entirely spent, a little like he’s just finished running a marathon without having trained for it; Stiles can barely move a muscle. He knows he’s about to lose the battle with consciousness, and he’s aware enough to panic over what will happen to Derek and himself if they’re both splayed out and dead to the world in the middle of the woods. Nothing good ever happens in these damned woods!

The crunching of dirt and pebbles under a pair of heavy boots draws his attention as a man crouches next to him, elbows resting on bent knees. Stiles peers up at him, notes his piercing blue eyes, sharp jawline, and neatly styled hair. He’s middle-aged but takes care of himself, judging by the muscles under his thin v-neck shirt.

Stiles blinks hard, trying his best to keep the world from dimming around him. “Peter?” he breathes out in disbelief.

Peter sneers down at him, and the last thing Stiles hears before passing out is a reproving, “Idiot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you said you wanted to keep seeing my versions of the food Stiles cooks/bakes, so I'll start linking to photos of those as I post new chapters. For now, here are the things Stiles has made since chapter 2: [shortbread cookies](https://www.instagram.com/p/5lYVPivj0c/?taken-by=supjoya), [scones](https://www.instagram.com/p/_sQaXqPj0b/?taken-by=supjoya), [coconut crème pie](http://joya-designs.net/cake/gallery/coconutcremepie2017.jpg), and [sfogliatelle](https://www.instagram.com/p/BB-ug9wvjwd/?taken-by=supjoya) from chapter 3; [char siu bao](http://joya-designs.net/cake/gallery/charsiubao.jpg) from chapter 5; and the [sunflower cupcakes](http://sweets-and-treats.net/gallery/cupcakes10.jpg) from chapter 6 (apologies for the LQ photo; these cupcakes are from many moons ago lol).
> 
> Until next week, my dudes! <3


	7. Chapter 7

When Stiles wakes up, it’s to the sight of Derek leaning over a sink as he washes blood out of his own hair. They’re at Deaton’s clinic again, and Stiles has no idea how or when he got there.

He sits up carefully. His limbs feel heavy and sore, and he’s suffering from a dull, throbbing headache; otherwise, he thinks he’s mostly okay. “Derek?”

Upon hearing his name, Derek turns off the faucet and shakes out his hair in a way that reminds Stiles of a dog. He allows himself to smile at the imagery but doesn’t dwell on it. “Are you okay?” Stiles asks, remembering Derek had been out for the count last he’d seen him. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” Derek says as he swoops in and starts touching Stiles’ face, fingers prodding gently around the back of his head and near his neck. “How do you feel? Scott knows more about humans.” He curses to himself and mutters, “Why didn’t I call Scott? I should’ve called Scott!”

“No, it’s— _ah_!” Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and clutches his head.

“Stiles?” Derek says, sounding worried.

“Just a headache,” he assures, but that doesn’t assuage Derek’s concerns.

“DEATON!” Derek yells over his shoulder, making Stiles flinch at the booming sound. “ _Now_!”

“God. It’s like I have the worst hangover ever right now,” Stiles complains as the pain steadily increases.

“That’s because you’re due for your next shot,” Deaton says, approaching him quickly with a syringe in one hand. “Make a fist.” And that’s all the notice Stiles gets before Deaton sticks him full of magical…serum.

“What’s in this stuff anyway?” Stiles asks, frowning at the now empty syringe.

“Ginseng, sage, rosemary, ginger, lavender, turmeric, mistletoe,” Deaton lists off. “This and that.”

Stiles scrunches up his nose. “Did you just dump the entire spice rack in there?”

“Yes,” Deaton replies dryly. “And then I spelled it over an altar.”

Stiles stares blankly, uncertain as to whether or not the vet is joking. Is it even safe to shoot your veins full of liquefied herbs from the spice rack? Before he can finish processing, Deaton says, “I’ll need a few minutes to finish preparing the locator spell,” and then he bustles out of the room once more.

“Stiles,” Derek says, catching his attention again. “What do you remember from the woods?”

“Jennifer was trying to take my spark,” Stiles recounts. “I had to let her, after she knocked you out.”

“What?!” Derek shouts, raw panic on his face.

“It was the only way she was going to let us go,” Stiles explains helplessly.

Derek mouths wordlessly before he says, “Your spark is tied to your life force, Stiles. Giving it away means you _die_.”

“Someone might’ve thought to mention that a little earlier!” Stiles snaps, terrified of how narrowly he escaped with his life. “We’re lucky that—” He pauses, looking perplexed for a moment. “Peter,” he whispers, sounding slightly dazed, even to his own ears.

Derek purses his lips. He doesn’t look pleased. “You remember Peter?”

“Self-serving, manipulative asshole?” Stiles snorts. “Yeah. You could say I remember him.”

“My ears are ringing,” Peter calls from another room in the clinic.

Derek rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he responds. “You can come in now.”

Peter swans in moments later and greets Derek. “Dumb.” Then his eyes flick over to where Stiles is sitting up on an exam table. “Dumber.”

A memory suddenly floats to the surface of Stiles’ mind—many memories, in fact. “You’ve been to my bakery before,” he says in wonder.

“He has?” Derek’s eyes dart between Stiles and Peter. “Wait—do you remember him from the bakery? Or do you remember him from _before_ ,” he asks, clearly referring to a time before Stiles lost his memories.

“I’m not sure,” Stiles says as he attempts to make sense of his thoughts. “I just now pieced together he’s obviously a werewolf, but I don’t think I remember him from _before_.” He scratches his head and thinks hard. “I’m really disturbed by how many memories I have of you,” he says to Peter. Considering Stiles has been coming up short when searching for memories of everyone else, it’s a little overwhelming to find Peter scattered all through his life for the past two years. “I even know his order,” Stiles notes. “Slice of apple pie and dark roast coffee. That’s his regular.”

Derek is dumbfounded as he rounds on Peter. “You’re a _regular_?!”

Peter shrugs, completely unrepentant. “What can I say? The kid can bake.”

“Out of all the things I forgot, I had to retain memories of _you_?” Stiles retorts.

Peter gives him a firm onceover and sneers. “Maybe next time you invite a dark druid to feast on your life force, I won’t step in.”

“Oh, and you just happened to be taking a stroll that deep in the woods?” Not that Stiles isn’t grateful for whatever it is that brought Peter to the woods. Stiles would be dead if it weren’t for him.

Peter simply gestures to himself. “Werewolf,” he offers by way of explanation. Stiles is pretty sure werewolves don’t wander aimlessly in the woods. He’s fairly certain ordinary wolves don’t do that either.

“Wait, are you in the pack, too?” Stiles inquires.

“Let’s just say I’m… _pack adjacent_ ,” Peter replies with a disparaging smile.

Derek heaves a long-suffering sigh. “He’s my uncle. He’s in the pack.”

“Pack adjacent,” Peter insists.

“Whatever,” Stiles mutters. He has a feeling the two could bicker endlessly if he doesn’t step in soon. “Derek, what were you saying about Kali when we were in the woods?”

“Oh. She’s not real,” Derek replies, recalling his earlier train of thought. “Neither is Jennifer.”

Stiles shakes his head in confusion. The ass-kicking both women delivered seemed pretty damned real. “I’m gonna need a little more than that. What even happened to you when you went to fetch the rolling pin? I was beginning to think you weren’t going to come back,” he says a little plaintively.

Derek runs a hand down his own face. “Your car crapped out on me.”

“Oh, my God,” Stiles says with a groan. He feels like a jerk now for thinking Derek had abandoned him. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault. It’s fine,” Derek says, waving him off. “We had it towed to your shop while you were passed out. I’ll have a look at it later,” he promises. “Anyway, what I was trying to tell you is I found our footprints in the clearing where Kali attacked us. All the marks we left during the fight were still there, but Kali’s footprints were nowhere to be found.”

“I guess that’s weird,” Stiles concedes, “but how does that prove Kali and Jennifer aren’t real? Maybe it’s just some weird supernatural discrepancy.”

“I wasn’t sure at first,” Derek admits, “but then I thought back to how you said she simply vanished once your spark hit her.”

“So?”

“You don’t remember how your spark works, but I do. I’ve seen it,” Derek says. “It would take an enormous amount of incredibly focused power to completely obliterate all traces of an entire person. I doubt you’d be able to muster up that kind of power on accident, even if you’re hemorrhaging magic like Deaton said.”

Stiles doesn’t understand Derek’s rationalization. “My spark killed her,” he persists adamantly. “You can say what you want about the power behind my spark or whatever, but I saw it with my own eyes. Even if I didn’t mean to do it, I killed Kali.”

“You didn’t,” Peter interjects. “You can’t kill someone who’s already dead.”

Baffled, Stiles turns to Derek for help. “He’s right,” Derek agrees, nodding. “Kali died over three years ago. Died in my old loft, actually,” he mutters under his breath. “And Jennifer died around the same time.”

“Maybe they faked their deaths,” Stiles suggests, though he immediately realizes the idea is immensely irrational. There’s no way it’s that easy or common to fake deaths.

“I don’t know about Kali, but I’m the one who tore out Jennifer’s throat the first time around,” Peter says, sounding casual if not _proud_ of the fact. “You only screw that up once,” he bites out bitterly. “I killed Jennifer,” Peter declares with certainty. “I _know_ I killed her.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, drawing out the word as he takes one huge step away from Peter. “So, let me try to understand what you’re proposing,” Stiles says, directing his words at Derek. “Kali’s not real because she didn’t leave behind any footprints, which I agree is kind of weird. And apparently, the way my spark took her out is also weird.”

“Right,” Derek says, nodding along.

“And Jennifer also isn’t real because…Peter says he killed her already?” Stiles makes a face. “Is this guy for real?” he asks, jutting a thumb in Peter’s direction.

Derek simply shrugs his shoulders, while Peter glowers at them both and repeats, “I killed Jennifer. When I kill someone, I don’t do it halfway.”

“Right.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Because you only make that mistake once,” he parrots. “Can I just say you’re a total creep?”

Peter’s grin is nothing but wolfish. “Some things never change,” he says, sounding incredibly smug and pleased with himself.

“How _do_ you remember Peter?” Derek wonders aloud.

“I don’t _remember_ him,” Stiles corrects. “Clearly, I was able to be around him without my head exploding. Same with Erica, Boyd, and you. It’s just that Peter apparently figured it out on his own and used the opportunity to gorge himself with apple pie.”

Peter shrugs his shoulders. “It’s good apple pie,” he remarks unapologetically. “Besides, I only realized _I_ could be around you,” he clarifies. “Other than Erica, I didn’t know about anyone else with the same ability.”

“You still could’ve given Derek or someone a heads up,” Stiles insists.

“Considering we determined Erica could be around you, I figured Derek had tested things out for himself as well,” Peter points out, “It would have been cruel—even by my standards—to dangle you before him when he couldn’t come near you without incapacitating you.”

Stiles is reluctant to believe Peter possesses anything resembling a normal moral compass, but in this one case, he begrudgingly accepts Peter’s logic. There was no reason to cause Derek undue torment by reminding him constantly about a missing pack member he couldn’t even risk seeing.

Derek, on the other hand, holds only himself responsible for the missed opportunities. “If only I’d realized sooner,” he mutters resentfully as he shakes his head in remorse. “We left you alone for no reason, Stiles.”

“So melodramatic!” Peter quips. Then he turns to Stiles and adds in a mock whisper, “I really don’t know what you see in him.”

Stiles quells the urge to punch him in the throat and instead opts to comfort Derek. “I wasn’t left alone for _no_ reason,” he says emphatically. “Trust me when I say the pain I felt when I first ran into Scott yesterday was very real. You had no way to confirm only some people would result in my brain frying, especially if the way to figure that out was by frying my brain,” Stiles reasons. “You didn’t want to cause me pain. How could I hold that against you?”

Derek heaves a weary sigh. “I just wish we could figure out what’s going on. Is there something about Peter, Erica, Boyd, and me that allowed you to be near us? Or is this all a result of your memory block wearing down?”

“Perhaps we’ll know soon,” Deaton says suddenly, startling everyone in the room. “The locator spell is ready.”

“We need to put a bell on that man,” Peter murmurs, and Stiles doesn’t miss the way Deaton smirks at the comment.

“Follow me,” Deaton says, leading them down a long hallway and into his private office, located in the back of the clinic. The room features a bookcase lined with file folders as well as a small, neatly organized desk featuring a single photo frame facing away from the door.

On the floor in front of the desk is an ornate brass goblet filled with water, four blue candles, and a smudge stick wrapped in a leafy green plant with small white blossoms.

“Is that jasmine?” Stiles asks, stepping closer to get a better look.  
  
“White sandalwood,” Deaton answers, “wrapped around a sage smudge stick.” The vet gathers up the candles and says, “Sit.”

Once Stiles is seated, Deaton places the blue candles around him in a circle and makes sure the goblet is located in front of him. Derek and Peter have been relegated to the space behind Deaton’s desk. Peter is sitting in the only chair in the room with his feet propped up, appearing bored, while Derek looks on with interest and in concern. It makes Stiles slightly anxious, to be honest. He wonders how he’ll feel about Derek after he has his memories again. It’s not like it will matter once the memories are back, but now, in this moment, it’s still so difficult for Stiles to imagine that another version of himself exists for so many people.

“You and I are going to conduct this spell together in order to trace the spell that’s been cast on you,” Deaton explains, drawing Stiles’ attention back to him. “Usually, this requires an item that has been spelled by a being capable of magic, such as a witch or even a spark. But since you are not an item, we will focus on a small part of you instead of your entire body.” Deaton reaches into his pocket and retrieves a switchblade. “Prick your finger with this and allow four drops of your blood to fall into the goblet.”

Stiles frowns as he accepts the knife. “I hope this has been sanitized,” he whines, not looking forward to this part at all. Derek seems to sense his unease.

“Dr. Deaton, you’re sure about this?” Derek asks warily. “If the spell is for objects, maybe we should look for another spell specifically for humans.”

Deaton glances at him calmly and says, “You know as well as I that time is not on our side. Stiles likely has only four days before the potency of his serum wears off. He can’t afford to wait on another spell, and then to wait even longer as ingredients are gathered.”

Derek sighs, clearly torn.

“Guys? I don’t think I can do this,” Stiles says, eyes wide with apprehension. “No, not the spell,” he adds hastily when it seems as though Deaton might start to lecture him about the time crunch. “This,” he says, extending the index finger of one hand while holding the switchblade in the other.

Deaton gives him an exasperated look, and Stiles can’t really blame him for it. After everything Stiles has been through the past two days, it seems absurd that he can’t stomach pricking the tip of his finger with a blade.

“Can I—?” Derek asks, taking an abortive step forward. When Deaton nods and hurries him along, Derek quickly strides across the room and kneels beside Stiles. “Don’t look,” he advises as he gently takes up Stiles’ index finger.

The proximity has Stiles blushing hard. He’s obviously been physically near Derek several times today, let alone in the past; however, this seems more intimate, somehow. Perhaps because they aren’t also simultaneously fending off a homicidal maniac. Still, Stiles is embarrassed about what his face is doing, so he ducks his head down slightly, hoping Derek doesn’t notice.

“I said _don’t_ look,” Derek says, amusement clear in his tone.

Stiles peeks up at Derek and offers him a sheepish grin. “Right. Sorry,” he says, casting his gaze sideways to focus on something else in Deaton’s spartan office.

“Just focus on me,” Derek says softly.

“What?” Stiles boggles, absolutely feeling it as his face heats up even more. “You said not to look!”

Derek quirks an eyebrow at him. “Focus on my face; don’t look at your hand.”

“Oh. Right. Yes. That,” Stiles stammers out awkwardly. “Got it.”

As instructed, he locks eyes with Derek, and at this range, he’s stunned by their poetry-level beauty—there isn’t any other term for it. (Well, there probably is, but Stiles is already having a difficult time concentrating.) Derek’s eyes are deep and green, like lake water decorated with the multicolored flecks of fallen leaves in early autumn. It’s ridiculous, and unfair, and ridiculously unfair, but Stiles is glad he basically has permission to ogle all he wants and appreciate the view. When Derek furrows his brow and casts his eyes down, Stiles notes his dark eyelashes, the smooth slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, and the dark, bumpy plane created by carefully maintained stubble. Stiles’ eyes travel down the long line of Derek’s neck before he has to shake himself out of it. This is no time to pop a boner over the bobbing of Derek’s Adam’s apple.

“Uh.” Stiles awkwardly clears his throat. “You can start any time now.”

Derek smiles, and his eyes snap back to Stiles’. “All done, actually.”

Stiles feels his mouth drop open in disbelief. “Really?” He looks down at his finger, already wrapped with a strip of gauze. Then he notices strange black lines appear briefly on Derek’s arms. At first, Stiles thinks they’re veins—until they move. “What was that?” he asks, glancing up in concern.

Derek’s eyes sparkle with mirth once the lines disappear into his skin. “Maybe you’ll remember soon.”

“Oh, get a room, you two,” Peter drawls.

Stiles gapes at the remark, and there’s nothing he can do to hide his embarrassed blush this time. But at least the tips of Derek’s ears have turned pink, too.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Deaton says, the words dismissing Derek to the back of the room once more. Then he lights the candles and says to Stiles, “When we start the spell, all you need to do is place your index and middle fingers of your right hand in the goblet and swirl them in the water, clockwise. While you do that, I will walk around you counterclockwise as I chant the incantation.” Deaton pauses and stares pointedly at Stiles, so Stiles nods to confirm he’s clear on the directions. “Your circular movements within the goblet symbolizes the circle I’m making around you, so match your pace around the goblet to my pace around you.”

“Got it,” Stiles says.

“And how will we know who cast the spell?” Derek inquires.

“As I’m the one executing the locator spell,” Deaton says, “an image of the spell caster will appear in my mind.”

“That’s convenient,” Peter comments drolly.

Deaton turns a flinty stare at him. “You are here because I allow it, Peter. Do not test my patience. You will not like when it runs out.”

Peter pulls a face like a child who’s been scolded in front of his friends but still wants to come across as cool and unaffected. Nonetheless, he doesn’t offer further commentary, so Deaton appears to let it slide.

“Do you have any questions?” Deaton asks, rounding on Stiles again.

Stiles is anxious and dares to feel hopeful, but none of that impacts his comprehension of the spell. “No, I’m good,” he replies. “It all sounds pretty easy. Circles and chants, and boom—we’ll have an answer!”

“If all goes well,” Deaton warns, ever the realist. “Knowing the origin of a spell won’t always mean immediate access to a counter-spell. And, of course, there is the chance the locator spell might not work at all.”

That hadn’t occurred to Stiles. He doesn’t know why, but he frantically turns back to look at Derek for comfort and reassurance. “What happens then?”

“Well, the only reason for a locator spell to fail would be if there isn’t a spell to trace,” Derek supplies quietly.

Stiles doesn’t understand what he means by that. “Of course there’s a spell to trace,” he argues. “This,” Stiles declares, pointing to his own head, “isn’t normal. It’s not normal to wake up one day, forget everything you know, and start a new life.”

“It’s not normal,” Derek agrees, “but that doesn’t mean it’s supernatural.”

“Precisely,” Deaton concurs. “If we discover you haven’t been spelled at all, it would mean your affliction is perfectly human.”

Stiles is flummoxed by the possibility and rendered completely speechless for a moment. But then a single ray of hope flares brightly in his mind. “Erica said I’m not like this because of an accident.”

“As far as we know,” Deaton amends as he fiddles with the smudge stick. “And that doesn’t rule out human health conditions either.”

“Great,” Stiles mutters, hunching his shoulders miserably.

“As the saying goes, we shall cross that bridge when we come to it,” Deaton offers with a light pat on his shoulder. Stiles doesn’t think he should find so much solace in a useless turn of phrase, but he does. “Ready?”

At Stiles’ affirmative nod, Deaton begins circling him while carrying the lightly smoking smudge stick, and Stiles places his fingers in the goblet. After four full rotations, Deaton chants in a low, commanding voice, “ _Inveniere potencia reparon malifica. Inveniere potencia reparon malifica._ ”

Stiles feels it when the spell begins to take hold. He marvels vaguely at the fact that he’s taking part in an actual magic spell—but only for a moment. Because that’s when everything goes horribly wrong.

Pressure begins building in Stiles’ head at first. It’s not quite like a headache, but instead, like his skull is trying to crack apart. Stiles does his best to keep swirling his fingers in the goblet, determined not to ruin the spell, but he loses his concentration when his nose begins to bleed.

“Is it working?” he asks, afraid to hear the answer.

Just then, Deaton stumbles; he trips just slightly and is able to catch himself easily. Stiles blearily hopes that wasn’t his fault just as Deaton gasps, clutches his own head, and shouts, “Snuff out the candles! Derek, put them out!”

Stiles glimpses Derek lunging forward just as his head bursts with pain between the few seconds it takes for Derek to blow out all the flames.

“What happened?” Derek demands furiously. “Did you get the incantation wrong? I thought you knew what you were doing!”

Deaton looks so shaken Peter actually gets up and offers the vet his seat.

“This is far worse than I anticipated,” Deaton says grimly as he sinks into the chair.

“Guh. Nothing could be worse than this,” Stiles moans, sounding stuffy due to the way he’s pinching his bloody nose. “To say my head is pounding would be an understatement. There’s a freakin’ drum circle happening up in here.”

Derek places a hand along the side of Stiles’ neck, and he watches in stunned silence when dark lines slither across Derek’s skin again, and his pain levels decrease significantly.

“Whoa,” Stiles breathes out as he leans against Derek in relief. “I could get used to that,” he slurs.

Derek tenderly cradles Stiles’ head against his own shoulder. “Deaton, what happened?” he repeats. “Didn’t it work?”

“It worked,” Deaton replies, but he doesn’t sound happy about it.

“Well?” Peter blurts out, fists clenched at his sides. “Who cast the spell?”

Deaton closes his eyes, ostensibly going over whatever it was he saw in his mind.

“Who was it?” Stiles demands, incapable of dealing with the anticipation any longer. Seriously, the vet was worse than Ryan Seacrest!

Deaton’s eyes snap open, and he looks a little constipated if Stiles is going to be perfectly honest. “You,” Deaton says, just barely above a whisper.

Stiles gawks, at odds with this answer. “What?”

“Are you sure?” Derek pushes. “Maybe you didn’t—”

“I’m sure,” Deaton interjects. “It’s why Stiles’ reaction was so violent. We used drops of his blood as the anchoring object, but it created a conflict since his blood served both as object and source in the spell,” he explains, now addressing everyone in the room.

Derek pulls back to look at Stiles with something akin to horror on his face. It makes Stiles wish he could melt into the floor—anything to escape the scrutiny. Was that disappointment in Derek’s eyes? _Hurt_?

“That can’t be right,” Derek insists, still in denial.

But Deaton sets him straight and firmly declares, “Stiles blocked his own memories.”


	8. Chapter 8

After Stiles’ nose quits bleeding, Derek helps him get cleaned up. “If what Deaton said is true,” Stiles says, gazing dolefully at Derek, “if I really did block my own memories, what does that mean?” he asks. “What do we do now?”

Derek sighs wearily and doesn’t say anything for a minute, almost like he’s doing his best not to say he doesn’t know. Stiles wouldn’t hold such an answer against him. He realizes this complicates everything.

“I feel like I should be apologizing,” Stiles says despondently.

Derek takes this opportunity to pull himself together again, which also doubles for one hell of a hesitation. “What are you talking about?” he says. And Stiles has to give him credit for sounding entirely genuine when he adds, “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“I obviously don’t remember why I blocked my own memories, but if it’s true—and I think it is because Dr. Deaton doesn’t strike me as the type to make mistakes with stuff like this—then it means it’s my fault any of this is happening,” Stiles says miserably. “It’s my fault I’ve forgotten how to use my spark, it’s my fault you’re having to protect me from supernatural crazies trying to kill me, and it’s my fault I’ve been estranged from the pack for the last two years. It’s all my fault.”

“Don’t say that. We don’t know what your motives were,” Derek says firmly. “We have four more days. We’ll figure this out.”

“I wish I’d left myself a note or something,” Stiles grouses, and it lifts his mood somewhat when Derek cracks a smile at the comment.

“Let’s regroup in the morning.” Stiles whirls around to find Deaton has inadvertently snuck up on them again. He wears a somewhat pinched expression on his face, though he seems otherwise unaffected by the semi-botched locator spell. Stiles, on the other hand, is still nursing a slight headache, though it’s slowly fading away. “It’s been a long day,” Deaton continues. “Stiles’ memory serum will hold up until tomorrow, and I have it on good authority your pack is eager to have you home.”

Derek huffs, amused, and shares a knowing look with the vet. “Has Scott been texting you this whole time, too?”

“Yes,” Deaton replies with a subtle yet fond grin. “Incessantly.”

“How about you meet us at the pack house tomorrow,” Derek proposes. “I imagine everyone will want to spend the night, so we’ll all be there in the morning.”

“That works for me,” Deaton says, walking them to the door. “I’ll see you then.”

They bid Deaton farewell, and once outside, Stiles scans the area and realizes they’re short one person. “Hey, where’s Peter?”

“Around, I’m sure,” Derek says, unbothered by his uncle’s sudden disappearance. “You’ll discover that he will show up again when you least suspect or want it.”

“Oddly, I find that easy to believe,” Stiles says with a quiet snicker. “So, where are we going for dinner?” Amidst all the commotion, he hasn’t forgotten that Derek promised he’d get to meet the pack tonight. “Maybe pizza?” he suggests, stomach rumbling at the mere mention of food. “Pizza parlors are good for a big group of people.”

“I agree, but not tonight,” Derek replies kindly. “Most restaurants are usually too confined to deal with the entire pack with such little warning.”

“We’re going to your house, then?” Stiles guesses.

“We’re _staying_ at my house,” Derek corrects, pausing pointedly as he waits for the command to sink in.

Stiles raises an eyebrow at the directive. “Are we now?” he asks, thoroughly unimpressed. “Is this the part where you kidnap and murder me, then create a suit out of my skin?”

“What? Stiles, _no_ ,” Derek says, utterly appalled.

“Well, that’s good,” Stiles sniffs, unable to curb his petulance. “Because you and your stupid muscles would eventually _Hulk_ out and ruin the seams, anyway.”

Obviously, Stiles isn’t actually serious about the crude remarks, and yet, they had stemmed from the very real indignation he feels at Derek’s nerve to order him around. Who is he to dictate what Stiles does? At the very least, _pretend_ to offer him a choice.

Unaware of what’s ticked him off, Derek is downright churlish as he scowls unhappily. “Why are you being childish about this?”

Stiles bristles at the brusqueness. “Sorry,” he grouses emphatically.

Derek purses his lips, then sighs with exasperation, unwilling to let the issue drop. “What’s the problem here?” he asks impatiently. “We slept in the same room last night without incident, so I don’t think that could be bothering you. And you know by this point that I wouldn’t harm you. You’re safe with me,” he adds hesitantly. “So, what is it?”

Stiles shrugs a shoulder and casts his gaze down, wishing he were anywhere else but in the middle of a nearly deserted parking lot having this conversation. He feels too exposed.

“ _Stiles,_ ” Derek prompts, clearly sensing his unease. When Stiles glances up at him, Derek’s expression instantly softens, and he makes an effort to quell his irritation. “Talk to me,” he urges, tone hopeful. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I’m tempted to say I’m just being dumb, but also, I’m really, really not,” Stiles says finally. Then he does his best to parse through his incongruous thoughts. “It’s just really unnerving that you, like, _know_ me or whatever,” he admits, staring off to the side, face heating up with embarrassment as he lays himself bare. “And, I mean, that’s obvious. Of course you know me,” he rambles on. “You know me because I’m the idiot who bleached his own brain. But it still makes me feel sort of, I dunno, _unmoored_?” Stiles frowns, both because the word is fitting and because he wishes he didn’t feel this way.

“I know that’s not on you,” he assures Derek. “And I really do want to meet the pack,” he adds hastily. “It’s just that I’d mentally prepared for an ‘in and out’ operation: meet, greet, dine, and dash. But now you’re, like, insistent that I stay the night at your house, with the pack, and I dunno.” Stiles shrugs helplessly, then keeps going since he’s already come so far. “It freaks me out a little. Because I’m basically a stranger in my own life, and I was _trying_ to deal with you knowing all about me, but then the prospect of being confined in a space surrounded by a gaggle of people who know all about me as well? Know me better than I know myself, apparently? I just…I’m already feeling adrift, and I fear a far uglier meltdown if I continue to quash down these ridiculous feelings.”

“Unmoored and adrift?” Derek whispers, brow creased in concentration. Stiles finally shifts his gaze back to Derek, somewhat puzzled that’s all the man had picked up on after quite the epic word vomit. “Unmoored and adrift,” Derek says once more, only louder this time. And then his eyes light up with understanding as he abruptly proclaims, “Because you need an _anchor_.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Uh, sure,” he replies dubiously.

“Oh, my _God_ ,” Derek says, sounding strangely frustrated and relieved all at once. He scrubs a hand down his own face, and Stiles can’t quite read him as he takes a second to collect his thoughts. “Okay,” Derek begins again, much calmer this time. “Let’s agree right now that this is a really weird situation. Also,” he smiles encouragingly at Stiles, “you are entitled to your perfectly valid feelings, and I’m really glad you were honest with me.”

Stiles scrunches up his nose. “You’re welcome?”

Derek snorts with amusement. “How about you come over for dinner, meet the pack, chat with everyone, and _then_ decide if you’d like to stay the night with us.”

Stiles exhales shakily, unexpectedly grateful his nervous breakdown hasn’t destroyed the evening’s plans. “I could work with that.”

“And if you decide you’d prefer the familiarity of your loft instead,” Derek continues, “then I’ll pack a bag after dinner, and I’ll sleep on your couch again.”

“Thanks,” Stiles replies appreciatively. He’s still feeling a little self-conscious, despite the fact that Derek’s being incredibly empathetic and patient, but he thinks the apprehension might leave him gradually since he’s being more mindful about communicating his anxiety.

“Really, I shouldn’t have been so blunt from the outset,” Derek says matter-of-factly. He grimaces slightly and adds, “I tend to get short with people when I’m stressed. I’m working on it, though.”

They’re finally walking through the parking lot when Stiles belatedly adds, “Also, I know you wouldn’t harm me.” He steals a sidelong glance at Derek, noting how the acknowledgment eases the tension from around his shoulders. “I get that you just want to keep me safe. Protect me.”

“I do,” Derek says with conviction. “And until we’re able to determine what’s conjuring people like Kali and Jennifer, I hope you don’t mind that I’d prefer you not stay alone at your loft or wherever it is you choose to stay. Because unreal or not, the damage they’re capable of inflicting is very real, and—”

“And I can’t defend myself,” Stiles finishes lightly.

Somewhat defensively, Derek mumbles, “That isn’t what I said.”

“I’m not offended,” Stiles contends. “In fact, I whole-heartedly agree with you on this. I totally respect that you—and likely the rest of the supernaturally-enhanced pack members—are physically stronger than I am, especially if I’m up against adversaries like Kali and Jennifer. Seriously, there’s no doubt in my mind I’d be dead right now if it hadn’t been for you. And I’m okay with that knowledge because, y’know, yay for not dying,” he finishes flippantly. “Yay life!”

Derek emits a low, subvocal growl that makes Stiles jump a little in surprise. “You’re not dying on my watch,” he grumbles.

Stiles smiles contentedly. “I know.” And he marvels at how the reassurance causes Derek to relax once again.

“Do we need to stop by your loft first, so you can pick up a change of clothes, in case you end up staying the night?” Derek asks, watching cautiously for Stiles’ reaction.

“Yes, please,” Stiles replies easily, his anxiety not an issue since he no longer feels forced or trapped.

They’ve nearly reached the end of the pavement, and Stiles carefully appraises the limited selection of cars remaining in the parking lot, wondering which one they’re headed to. “You do have a car, right?” he asks skeptically. “My jeep’s out of commission, remember?”

“I remember,” Derek answers a little incredulously just as they approach a sleek black Camaro parked deep in the shadows, almost hidden in plain sight.

Stiles gives the car a calculating onceover, then does the same to Derek. They both just _fit_. “This is your car?” he asks in awe. Derek nods, and Stiles eagerly tests his luck. “Can I drive?”

Derek smirks as he digs the keys out of his pocket and says, “Sure.” But then his eyes twinkle with mischief as he adds, “In your dreams.”

Stiles’ mouth falls open in disbelief as a startled laugh escapes him. “Oh, come on!” he shouts, bright-eyed and giggly as he climbs into the passenger seat.

~ ~ ~

After Stiles has collected his things at the bakery and both he and Derek are back in the Camaro, Derek steers the car away from the shop, taking roads Stiles knows but has never driven on before. In fact, Stiles is sure he’s never even _thought_ about turning onto these streets. It’s the most bizarre experience, like when a friend drives you to a location you both know but takes a route entirely different from the one you would choose. Of course, Stiles still doesn’t remember where, exactly, they’re headed.

They drive in companionable silence, which is pleasant yet strange. It’s nice because Stiles typically doesn’t feel comfortable just _being_ when he’s around other people; however, something about Derek puts him at ease and assuages the part of him that usually wants to fill up silence with nervous babbling. Conversely, it’s also somewhat discomfiting because he wishes he understood why he has certain reactions to Derek. And it’s not just Derek either. How did Stiles simply know that Peter is a jackass, in spite of only interacting with him as a customer at the bakery? How is it Stiles has no memories of these people, yet his instincts about them are still intact?

As they turn onto a nearly hidden dirt road that leads into the preserve, Derek shoots him a sidelong glance and says, “I can practically hear you overthinking. What’s on your mind?”

“Right this moment?” Stiles asks, trying to tamp down on his nerves. “I’m thinking about how it feels like we’re in _Children of Men_.”

Derek huffs out a laugh but sees right through his ploy to stall. “Besides that, what’s really on your mind?”

Stiles leans back in his seat and stares up at the ceiling of the car. “What if the pack hates me?” he asks, unable to look at Derek, even though he suspects Derek is probably focused on the road anyway. “I realize that from everything that’s been implied, they all want to see me. But,” Stiles hesitates, “with what I know now, _I_ don’t want to see me.” His eyes shift sideways, now gliding along row after row of trees zipping past his window. “I just feel so damned guilty because I’m the one who blocked my own memories,” he says, heaving a weary sigh. “But guilt is a useless emotion right now. And so is remorse, I guess. I don’t know.”

“You’re not an automaton. You’re allowed to feel your feelings, and what you’re dealing with isn’t something simple to process,” Derek says very reasonably, his eyes still trained on their winding path through the forest. “But even if you’re not the same person the pack remembers, the pack is still the same as when you left—more or less, anyway. And I can say with certainty there is no way any of us could ever hate you.”

 _Maybe you should_ , Stiles wants to say. He still finds it difficult to believe he could ever make himself forget about people who sound so nice. Something really awful must have happened for him to wipe his own memories of what seems like a pretty good life. Regardless, Derek’s words are comforting, and Stiles reluctantly accepts them as truth.

“Hang on. Can we stop by the store or something?” Stiles suddenly says, his anxiety working overtime. “I can’t show up empty-handed after _two years_.”

“It’s fine. You’re not some random guest, Stiles. And besides, you won’t be empty-handed,” Derek replies in a somewhat amused tone while making no movement to turn the car around. “You’ll be holding all your stuff.”

Stiles turns a withering glare on him. “This is no time for you to develop a sense of humor!”

Derek doesn’t hold back a cheerful laugh, and Stiles thinks he could get used to that sound. “Just relax,” Derek advises, reaching over to pat Stiles’ knee. The action does the exact opposite of relaxing Stiles, but he forces himself not to think about that.

“I can’t relax,” Stiles says emphatically. “I realize the pack already knows who I am, but it still feels like I’ll be making a first impression. And you’re not supposed to show up empty-handed when you go somewhere new.”

Derek bites back a smile. “Everything will be fine,” he says confidently. “Besides, everyone knows the way to a werewolf’s heart is through his stomach. And I _know_ you know your way around a kitchen.”

“Okay. Yeah. I can do that. Maybe I can cook something,” Stiles says, nodding enthusiastically as he runs through his options. “You’ll need to tell me what everyone likes, of course. Because, well—” Stiles waves his hands around his own head to indicate the whole fiasco regarding his memories. “I do have most of my baking recipes memorized at this point, but I still brought my cookbook with me because I don’t go anywhere without it. It’s like my security blanket,” he says with a nervous giggle. “But I have some good recipes in it. Like, stuff that isn’t cupcakes and pastries and stuff.” He pauses, then pulls a face. “God, this really is a weird situation, isn't it? Do you remember my cookbook?” he wonders aloud, unable to keep from hopping topic to topic. “I feel like I’ve had it forever. But maybe there’s a recipe in there that you remember?”

Derek smiles fondly at Stiles’ rambling. “You _have_ had it forever,” he confirms. “That cookbook was your mother’s. It’s one of your most treasured possessions.”

Stiles breathes out a sigh of relief he didn’t realize he’d been holding in. “At least my memory of her is still true.”

“But maybe you can cook for us another night,” Derek suggests gently. “With a pack the size of ours, dinner is rarely a last-minute decision, especially when everyone will be attending. They’re likely already preparing food. But I’m sure they’ll let you help.”

The car gradually slows down as Derek drives under some low-hanging branches, and then a _huge_ house comes into view. The sun has set, but even in the dim evening light, Stiles counts eight windows that he can see. The front door is bracketed by columns that wrap around the house to create an enormous patio, and someone has strung together paper lanterns that twinkle like fairy lights along the columns. The home doesn’t really have a lawn since it’s buried deep inside the woods, yet it still appears as though someone takes the time to plant flowers and maintain shrubs peppered around the doors and sectioned off gardens. Quiet laughter sounds from the backyard, and though Stiles can’t ever remember being here, he marvels at how it feels as though he is _returning_. There is something distinctly familiar and warm and inviting about the home, and Stiles is inexplicably happy to be there.

“Home sweet home,” Derek says as he turns off the car.

“More like _hotel_ sweet home,” Stiles remarks, still captivated by the sheer size of the building. “Does the whole pack live here?”

“No, but they’re welcome to if they want,” Derek says. “They all helped me to build it. So did you, actually.”

Stiles scoffs in disbelief. “Somehow, I can’t picture myself with power tools.”

“There’s a reason for that,” Derek deadpans.

“Hey!” Stiles says indignantly, smacking Derek’s arm.

“You mostly painted things,” Derek says as they exit the car. “And you helped me to put in the front door and the railing along the patio.”

Stiles slowly pieces things together as he recalls from his Google searches that Derek’s own family is gone, and that his family’s house was destroyed in a fire. That must be why the pack was so involved in building this house; Derek had needed somewhere new to call home.

“So, is the pack house kinda like a den?” Stiles grimaces contritely. “Sorry, is that offensive?”

Derek cocks an eyebrow at that. “I suppose you could say it’s a little like a den,” he concedes. “Everyone has a room here, and they’re welcome to use it for a night or for longer,” he explains. “Only Isaac lived here with me for a while. Now Erica and Boyd are here full time as well, but they’re trying to find a place for themselves, so I’m not sure how much longer they’ll stay. A lot of the pack is in college now, so the house is emptier these days. Until the holidays, anyway.” Derek smiles wryly, probably at a memory. “C’mon,” he says, waving Stiles forward.

Derek unlocks the front door, and Stiles barely gets his foot inside the house before Erica seems to appear from nowhere and wraps him in a surprisingly welcome hug. “God, I’ve waited so long to have you in here again,” she murmurs, then shoves her nose into the crook of Stiles’ neck and takes a whiff.

“I have to warn you,” Stiles says, “I haven’t had the time to shower in a couple days, what with all the attempted murder and all.”

Erica pulls away and gives him a reproving look. “Don’t be daft. I’m scenting you.”

“Of course you are,” Stiles replies flatly. “So, there’s accelerated healing, shape shifting—obviously—and scenting,” he lists off on his fingers. “Anything else in the werewolf superpowers booster pack?”

“We can also smell your emotions and listen for upticks in your heartbeat to tell when you’re lying,” Erica replies brightly.

Stiles gawks at her, then looks to Derek for confirmation. Derek merely shrugs his shoulders unapologetically and clarifies by stating, “Heightened senses.”

“Perfect,” Stiles snarks. “Just what I needed to hear before meeting an entire pack of werewolves for the first time.”

“Let’s go!” Erica says, excitedly tugging him through the foyer and into the kitchen. “Everyone’s absolutely dying to see you.”

Stiles immediately recognizes Boyd, looking tall, dark, and handsome, exactly as Stiles recalls from the couple times he picked up Erica from work. He’s standing beside Scott at the kitchen island, and they’re shaping ground beef into hamburger patties. Behind them, near the sink, stands a tall, willowy boy with curly blonde hair slicing tomatoes, and next to him is a short yet surprisingly muscular boy wrapping silverware in nice dinner napkins. A girl with strawberry blonde hair is seated at the head of the kitchen table with a pile of books at her elbow. She looks up and smiles warmly when she spots Stiles. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

“Um. Hey,” Stiles says, waving awkwardly at the kitchen full of unfamiliar faces.

Derek strolls into the room—no longer wearing his leather jacket—and points to the redhead and says, “That’s Lydia. And you already know Scott and Boyd, right?”

Well, as much as it’s possible for Stiles to _know_ any of them. But he simply says, “Yeah. Hey, again.”

“We can meet properly later,” Boyd says, raising his dirty hands by way of explanation.

“Sure. No problem,” Stiles says with a nod.

“Isaac’s the one chopping up salad,” Derek says, continuing with introductions. Isaac offers a close-lipped half smile and a two-finger wave. “And Liam is folding napkins.”

“Hi!” Liam says enthusiastically. He reminds Stiles of an eager puppy.

“Where’s Mason?” Derek asks. Then, to Stiles, he adds, “Liam and Mason are usually joined at the hip.”

“He failed a physics quiz, so he said he needs to stay home and study tonight,” Liam answers, pouting a bit.

A concerned frown curls Derek’s lips. “But physics is his best subject,” he protests.

Liam shrugs his shoulders and reasons, “Sometimes pack business just gets in the way of stuff.” But Derek still looks unhappy, clearly displeased with this answer.

“Malia’s running the perimeter, in case you’re wondering,” Isaac adds, anticipating the question. “She’ll be back in a few.”

“Are you staying for dinner, Stiles?” Scott asks hopefully.

“Yeah. Actually—” Stiles glances down, realizes he _is_ empty-handed, and looks back in the direction of Derek’s car, where he’d left his bag. “I’m staying for dinner, but I might also stay the night. We’ll see. I mean,” he stammers, “if it’s okay with you guys. Derek told me all of you sort of live here sometimes?”

“Don’t be absurd. You live here, too,” Erica declares, slinging an arm across Stiles’ shoulders. “You’ve just been gone for a very long time.”

Stiles startles a little at that. Derek had said everyone in the pack has a room in this house, and he’d also said Stiles is a part of the pack. And that means Stiles has a room here, too. He can’t help but wonder how it might differ from his loft above the bakery. Perhaps the room holds clues about his past? Suddenly, spending the night here has become much more intriguing.

“Is the sheriff here yet?” Derek asks the room at large.

“He’ll be over when his shift ends,” Scott replies. “Definitely before dinner is served, though. He wouldn’t miss burger night—not even after I told him we got him turkey patties.”

“Dang,” Stiles says, drawing out the word. “The sheriff’s a werewolf, too?”

The kitchen immediately goes silent as everyone freezes in place. Stiles can’t figure out what he said wrong. Is the pack like a mafia? Do they own law enforcement? Does the pack own the town? Is it a secret they just don’t talk about?

“What?” Stiles says, eyes flitting curiously from one pack member to the next.

“Nothing,” Erica says, though it doesn’t sound like nothing. “The sheriff isn’t a werewolf. He’s human,” she assures. "C’mon, let me introduce you to everyone else in the backyard.”

Stiles instinctively looks back at Derek as Erica pulls him deeper into the house, but Derek just says, “I’ll go grab your things from the car and catch up later.”

The backyard is rustic and cozy, and it both stands out from and complements the surrounding wooded area. The little gardens in this space are impossibly green and well-tended, though none of them are deliberately sectioned off with bricks or similar objects; instead, the gardens are allowed to grow in conjunction with the wildness of the forest. Under the spotlights created by the paper lanterns strung along the trees, the yard is like something straight out of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_.

A stone pathway leads from the patio out to a deck, where a man in a deputy’s uniform and a short woman with long black hair are puttering around a grill.

“Hey, guys!” Erica shouts as she waves at them.

The woman spots Stiles first, and she gasps then squeals with glee. “Stiles!” She bounds forward and throws her arms around his neck. Having started from far enough away, Stiles isn't too surprised with the unprovoked display of affection. He's beginning to realize the pack is a tactile bunch of people. “Oh, we’ve missed you so much!” Then the woman pulls back abruptly and looks sheepish all of the sudden. “Sorry. I just remembered that you don’t remember us,” she says, smiling shyly as she tucks a stray strand of hair behind an ear. “I’m Kira.”

Stiles thinks back to what Derek had told him about the pack. “Fox spirit, right?”

Her face lights up immediately as she nods enthusiastically. Then she turns back to the grill and waves a hand at it, causing a zigzag of orange energy to jump from her palm and into the coals, setting them on fire.

Stiles’ eyes grow wide at the sight. “Whoa!” he exclaims, looking at her in awe. “You’re a spark, too?” Then he shakes his head and says, “No, you’re a fox spirit. Wait—can you be both?”

Kira chuckles and says, “I’m not a spark. I’m a thunder kitsune.” Then she gestures at the deputy, who sports a gold badge emblazoned with the name _Parrish_ on his uniform. “And this is Jordan. He’s a hellhound.”

“Good to have you back, Stiles,” Jordan says as he shakes Stiles’ hand and flashes him a dimpled smile. He looks more like a Disney prince than a hellhound, but Stiles has enough presence of mind not to blurt out something like that.

“Oh, hey,” Erica says, lightly nudging Stiles with her elbow. She points into the trees and says, “Look over there. That’s Malia.”

Stiles squints his eyes and peers into the woods, searching for the person Erica’s trying to show him. “I don’t see anyone,” he says after a few seconds.

Erica rolls her eyes and points in the same direction again. “The _coyote._ ”

Stiles lowers his gaze to look closer to the ground, and sure enough, he spots a tawny coyote standing on all fours, scenting the air while staring directly at him. He shakes his head in disbelief. “That’s a _person_?” he marvels aloud. And according to Derek, that person is his ex-girlfriend to boot!

“That’s a coyote,” Erica teases, and Stiles gives her an unimpressed look.

“Malia’s a werecoyote,” Jordan supplies helpfully. “She’s part coyote, part human.”

“Can you all shift like that?” Stiles asks. “Like, all the way?”

“Only Malia and Derek can,” Kira replies. “But Malia prefers her full shift. She lived as a wild coyote for several years, actually.” Stiles’ eyebrows shoot into his hairline as Kira mutters, “Story for another time.”

Malia appears to lose interest in them and bolts into the woods again, vanishing from view. “You can meet her when she’s done patrolling,” Erica says. “She’ll be the leggy brunette eating the extra rare burger tonight.”

Stiles isn’t quite sure how to respond to that, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“Kira and I are in charge of the grill tonight,” Jordan says, stoking the coals. “You still like your burger cooked medium-well, right?”

Stiles’ jaw sags. “Yeah, actually,” he says, still not used to the fact that these people know him so much better than he knows them. He keeps telling himself he’ll find a way to bridge the gap, though.

“I promise Parrish isn’t a stalker,” Erica quips upon noticing his reaction.

“No, it’s fine,” Stiles says, but then he remembers practically everyone in this house can tell when he’s lying. “Well,” he adds hastily, “it’s a little unsettling, but only because I’m still getting used to the whole memory loss situation.”

“I can only imagine,” Kira says, shaking her head in commiseration. “It was a shock when I learned about my kitsune heritage a few years ago, but it’s not like anything else about my life changed drastically at the time. This must be so bizarre and jarring for you.”

Stiles can’t help but think she’ll be far less sympathetic once she discovers he’s the one responsible for his own memory loss. “Yeah. Surprise amnesia,” he mumbles awkwardly. “It’s been a barrel of laughs so far.”

“ _You’re_ a barrel of laughs.” Erica loops her arm around Stiles’ and says, “C’mon. Let’s head back inside and help everyone finish up dinner prep.” They bid Jordan and Kira farewell, and Erica ushers him back towards the house. “And hey,” Erica says as she holds the door open. “Maybe your dad’s here by now.”

“My dad’s coming tonight, too?” Stiles asks, sounding both hopeful and apprehensive. He doesn’t have any memories of the man, though he’s always yearned to know what Stiles now realizes is the _idea_ of his father. He fears for one brief instance that his father won’t measure up to the person he’s dreamed up in his head, but then a far worse thought enters his mind: What if Stiles doesn’t measure up? What if they aren’t that close? What else could explain why the man hasn’t come to see Stiles yet?

“Of course your dad’s coming,” Erica says, oblivious to Stiles’ internal turmoil on the subject. “He would’ve ambushed you sooner because he’s been desperate to be near you again. We all have, but him more than the rest of us since he _is_ your father. But Dr. Deaton has been very careful about not overwhelming you with too much too quickly. Derek, too, obviously. He’s been annoyingly protective.”

“Because Derek’s the alpha,” Stiles surmises. “That makes sense.”

Erica tilts her head in confusion. “Derek isn’t the alpha.”

Stiles blinks, perplexed. “Oh, do werewolf packs not have alphas? Is that not a wolf thing that translates over for werewolves?” he asks. “I’m still trying to figure all this out. Well,” he amends, “ _re-_ figure all this out.”

“No, no. We have an alpha,” Erica assures him. “It’s Scott—not Derek.”

Adorable Scott McCall with the puppy dog eyes is the fierce alpha of this pack? “Definitely wouldn’t have pegged him for an alpha,” he mutters under his breath. Then again, Stiles hasn’t really had much opportunity to see Scott or anyone else from his pack in action. He’s really only been around Derek. Maybe Scott will measure up when tested, just like Derek.

When they reemerge in the kitchen, the pack is bustling about as they continue with dinner preparations. It’s like watching a well-oiled machine. People simply appear to know when to duck or scoot over, or when to lend a hand or back off. Stiles can tell they belong together as a group, and he can’t help but wonder how he fits in with this crowd. As far as he knows, he works best when left alone in the kitchen. But this pack— _his_ pack—thrives together.

Scott, who’s washing his hands at the sink, suddenly sniffs at the air, then turns and announces, “Stiles!”

“Why does it feel like I’m in an episode of _Cheers_ every time I enter a room with you guys?” Stiles jokes.

The pack laughs as Scott rushes over to hug him properly, now that his hands are clean of hamburger meat. “Because we’re happy to see you, dude,” he says. “Now, sit right here.” Scott gently pushes Stiles into a chair at the kitchen table, next to Lydia. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“You’re sure there isn’t anything I can do?” Stiles asks. “I guess you all know, but I own a bakery. I’m not totally useless in a kitchen.”

“ _When_ you get your memories back,” Scott says, placing pointed emphasis on the first word of his sentence, “you’ll kill us if you realize we let you bake something sugary and sweet for the sheriff, especially on burger night.”

Stiles gets out of his chair and opens the refrigerator. “I can do savory stuff. I can make burger night healthier.” He spots a head of cabbage and plucks it out of the vegetable drawer. Almost instinctively, he sidesteps to the pantry and reaches for a shelf where he somehow _knows_ he’ll find a can of diced tomatoes. “Oh, my God,” he breathes out upon realizing he’s just helping himself to things in the kitchen. These people are already making dinner, and Stiles is helping himself to ingredients so that he can make something _else_? Talk about rude. “I’m so sorry. I have no idea what’s gotten into me,” he says as he proceeds to put everything back in its place.

But Scott looks more than delighted. “Please,” he insists kindly as he presses the cabbage and the can of tomatoes back into Stiles’ hands. “No one here is going to complain about one more dish.”

Stiles smiles appreciatively. “I mean, it’s not anything major,” he says, grabbing a head of garlic and a couple shallots in one hand. “But if you want the sheriff to have a healthier option on burger night, I was thinking of making _golabki_.” Stiles pauses, dumbfounded. “Sorry. I have no idea where that came from. I meant to say cabbage rolls.”

Scott’s grin only gets wider, and he looks as though he’s going to burst at the seams.

“What?” Stiles says, carrying his ingredients over to the cutting board.

“Nothing,” Scott says, and even Stiles can tell that’s a lie. But the expression on his face is positively thrilled, so Stiles lets it slide for the time being. “How can I help?” Scott asks, gesturing to the food in front of them.

“Boil a pot of water, and let me have maybe five of the hamburger patties before anyone takes them out to the grill,” Stiles says. “If there’s enough to spare, the turkey patties will work, too.”

Scott offers him a sloppy salute, and they get to work. Once the water is boiling, they carefully drop the head of cabbage into it, and a couple minutes later, Stiles uses tongs to peel full leaves off the cabbage. When he’s collected a couple dozen leaves, he minces the remainder of the head of cabbage and mixes it together with the hamburger meat. Then he scores the cabbage-meat mixture so that every cabbage roll will have the same amount of meat.

“This part is kind of like assembling eggrolls, if you’ve ever done that before,” Stiles says. He shows Scott how to roll the meat into the cabbage, and how to secure it all with a toothpick so his hard work doesn’t come undone.

When all the cabbage rolls have been assembled, Stiles says, “Now for the easy part.” He dices the shallots and dumps them in a skillet first to let them sweat for a couple minutes. Then he pours in the can of diced tomatoes and some chicken stock, adds in the minced garlic, and then with Scott’s help, begins arranging the cabbage rolls in the tomato sauce.

“How long will they cook for?” Scott asks.

“About twenty minutes or so. Until the meat’s cooked through,” Stiles replies.

Scott takes a whiff of the steam billowing out from the pot as Stiles covers it. “You’ve gotten better at this,” he says. “Your dad always used to complain about the healthy foods you made him eat, but he’s going to love this.” Then he adds, “I mean, I think you could’ve fed him straight up rice cakes tonight, and he’d gobble them right up.” Scott sighs wistfully, then envelopes Stiles in an impromptu hug. “We’ve really missed you, dude.”

“Yeah, I’m beginning to get that idea,” Stiles says, flushing slightly as he awkwardly pats Scott’s back. He scans the kitchen and notices most of the pack has migrated outside, probably to help Kira and Jordan with the grill. Only Derek and Lydia remain at the kitchen table. “So, where are we eating?” Stiles gestures to the table and says, “Once the sheriff and my dad get here, there’s no way a dozen people will fit around that unless we eat in shifts!”

No one shares in Stiles’ laugh. Instead, all eyes abruptly shift to Scott, and Stiles can see now the subtle ways in which this pack defers to their alpha.

“About that,” Scott begins, just as the front door opens, and a moment later, a man clad in a sheriff’s uniform walks in. He looks like a perfectly ordinary person, but the moment his eyes land on Stiles, they begin to tear up.

“Stiles?” The man says brokenly. He seems conflicted between rushing up to Stiles and keeping his distance, though it’s clear he wants to do the former.

Stiles gazes incredulously first at Scott, but when Scott doesn’t say anything, he seeks out Derek for any kind of assistance. Neither of them will even look at him, and it only takes a moment for things to slot together in Stiles’ mind. The shape of the sheriff’s eyes, the cut of his jaw, his broad shoulders—

“The sheriff’s my dad?” he says uncertainly, eyes flitting back and forth between Scott and Derek.

“I told you we should’ve said something sooner,” Lydia says, breaking the awkward silence.

“We never even realized it was something we needed to clarify,” Scott says defensively. “He’s your dad, and he’s also the sheriff. The two facts have been interchangeable in our heads for so long. I guess by the time we realized you didn’t know—through no fault of your own,” he clarifies quickly, “we just—we didn’t want to—”

“You didn’t want to overwhelm me,” Stiles says, repeating Erica’s words from earlier. Clearly, that had the opposite effect. “I don’t remember _any_ of you,” Stiles says, frustrated with the deliberate lack of warning, in spite of the pack’s intentions. “After everything I’ve been through the past two days, how on earth would one more thing— _this_ one more thing—be the straw that breaks the camel’s back?”

“You’re right. We should’ve—” Derek starts to say, but then the sheriff takes a few abortive steps in Stiles’ direction and interjects.

“It’s my fault,” he says, shushing Derek’s attempts to deny that fact. “Sorry, kid. I can’t even imagine what you must be thinking, and the last thing I’d ever want is to make this more difficult for you.”

“God. Why is everyone here so _nice_?” Stiles demands, inexplicably irritated. “I wiped my own memories. Did they tell you that?” Stiles asks the sheriff—his _dad_. He’s furious with himself and with the situation, and it’s as though all his emotions have chosen right now to bubble up to the surface.

“I had friends here. A _family_. People who might as well throw a party every time I walk into a freaking room. You all cared about me and supported me.” Stiles flings an arm at the sheriff. “You raised me! And I purposely wished all of you away!” he shouts, breathing hard. “How on earth can you still be concerned about how difficult this is for _me_?” he cries aloud. “I can’t even—” Stiles chokes on a breath, wheezes for a moment, then tries again. “I can’t—I can’t—” His eyes grow wide with terror as he realizes what’s happening. “I can’t breathe!” he gasps, frantically searching the room for assistance he doesn’t expect to find. He’s always been alone for panic attacks. That’s what he remembers, anyway.

“Stiles!” The sheriff yells, immediately bolting towards him, raw concern etched onto his features.

Stiles shakes his head and steps back until he feels the kitchen cabinets behind him. He slides along them until he’s seated on the floor, back bowed as he tries to open up his airway.

“You’re having a panic attack,” the sheriff says, his calm tone belying the worry in his eyes. But Stiles knows that already, blearily realizing his anxiety from earlier really hadn’t left him at all.

The sheriff crouches next to Stiles and says, “Watch me. Eyes on me. Watch me breathe.”

“I can’t!” Stiles whines, shaking his head in distress.

The sheriff grabs Stiles’ hand, and Stiles watches through tears as his fingers are gently spread out against the sheriff’s chest. “In,” the sheriff says, inhaling exaggeratedly, “and out,” he says, doing the reverse. “Count with me, son,” he says as he begins a 4-7-8 breathing exercise. “You can do this.”

It feels like Stiles is breathing through a coffee straw, so he finds it difficult to believe the sheriff’s confidence, but he tries. It’s all he can do at this point. He’s vaguely aware of Scott in the corner of his vision, probably dealing with the cabbage rolls, which hopefully haven’t overcooked. He thinks he hears Derek and Lydia talking, but by the time Stiles comes back to himself, exhausted but conscious, it’s only he and the sheriff in the kitchen.

“You with me, kid?” The sheriff asks softly as he wipes some stray tears off Stiles’ cheeks.

Stiles nods and forcefully pulls away from the sheriff’s caring hands. “Sorry,” he rasps. “That hasn’t happened to me in a while.”

“I know you usually—” The sheriff pauses to rephrase his next words. “Do you want to eat? I told everyone to get started so the food doesn’t get cold. Or would you rather rest for a while on the couch?” he asks. “ I can ask the boys to make a plate for you and put it in the oven, so it stays warm.”

Now that Stiles is aware of it, he can smell the burgers from the grill outside. The pack must have a table or something set up in the backyard. “I think I’d like to rest for a bit,” he says. "But you already knew that.”

The sheriff doesn’t confirm or deny, but instead, offers Stiles a hand and pulls him onto his feet again. “That definitely wasn’t the first impression I wanted to make,” Stiles mumbles, feeling embarrassed.

“It wasn’t your first impression,” the sheriff says easily, slapping him on the back and pulling him in affectionately.

“I guess you have a point,” Stiles replies as they walk into the living room. “Still, sorry for throwing a fit.”

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” the sheriff says as Stiles kicks off his shoes and stretches out on the couch. “We can talk more once you wake up.”

Stiles feels sleep hit him like a ton of bricks, but before he’s out completely, his eyelids slide open, and he watches as the sheriff tenderly drapes a quilt over him. Without thinking about it, he murmurs, “Thanks, Dad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Click [here](https://www.instagram.com/p/BBJoD40Pj0c/?taken-by=supjoya) to see Stiles' cabbage rolls ( _golabki_ in Polish cuisine). I actually taught myself how to make this dish specifically because I looked up photos on Google while writing this chapter, and I got hungry lol. #priorities


	9. Chapter 9

Save for a small table lamp casting a dim light across the room, everything is quiet and dark when Stiles wakes up. He’s confused only for a moment as to where he is, until he remembers having a panic attack and totally ruining dinner with the pack.

Stiles groans softly as he sits up and spots a note on the coffee table in front of him:

> _Batman:_
> 
> _Boyd, Isaac, and I are taking care of the bakery today. Before you start feeling guilty, consider this one of the perks of being in a pack (and knowing about it)._
> 
> _P.S. We left you a plate of food in the oven._
> 
> _—Catwoman_

He stares incredulously at the note, wondering precisely how long he’s been asleep, and feeling guilty Erica’s had to cover for him two days straight now, even though her note deliberately asks him not to feel guilty about that. He really needs to think of a way to make this up to her later.

Filing that away in the back of his mind, Stiles tiptoes his way through the house and into the kitchen, where his eyes immediately zero in on the bright, glowing numbers on the oven. It’s 4:37 A.M., which explains why he’s absolutely famished, and also why the house is almost eerily silent. He quietly retrieves his dinner from the oven and places it in the microwave. He’s oddly bemused by his frazzled nerves from the day before, given he ended up spending the night at the pack house, in spite of all his reservations. He idly ponders over the implications as his eyes wander over to the breakfast nook and register the outline of a person calmly sitting in the dark. He jumps when two blazing blue eyes stare up at him.

“Peter!” Stiles hisses, pressing a hand to his own chest. “Geez. You nearly gave me a heart attack! How long have you been sitting there?”

“What’s it to you?” Peter asks, languidly flipping through one of the books Lydia had been perusing before dinner.

Stiles frowns. “Do you usually make it a habit to creep around while everyone else is asleep?”

“Yes, actually,” Peter replies, still only barely paying attention to Stiles.

With a huff, Stiles punches some buttons on the microwave, turns on the lights above the kitchen table, then takes a seat next to Peter. “What are you reading?” he asks, grabbing one of the books furthest from Peter. It looks old and worn, yet the red leather binding on it holds strong. “ _Herbology of the Mind_ ,” he reads the title aloud. “What’s that even supposed to mean?”

“You tell me,” Peter says, casually opening the book and pointing to a scribble at the top-right corner of the title page. “It’s yours.”

Stiles feels his mouth fall open in shock; sure enough, it’s his name in his own handwriting scrawled at the top of the page. “No way,” he murmurs. He quickly checks a few more of the books, and it turns out they’re all his, apparently.

“ _Way_ ,” Peter replies sardonically. “You’re quite the bibliophile. It’s perhaps one of your most redeeming qualities.”

Stiles decides not to evaluate why that comment pleases him so much. “Are you guys checking my books to see if you can find a spell or something?”

“Or something,” Peter agrees.

Stiles scrutinizes him thoughtfully as his dinner finishes up in the microwave. “Does everyone else know you’re helping?” he asks when he gets up to retrieve his food.

Peter heaves a long-suffering sigh and finally looks up from the book he’s reading. “I really don’t think you’re in the position to turn away help,” he says.

“I wasn’t doing anything of the sort,” Stiles replies in earnest. “It’s just weird you’re sitting here all alone while everyone else is fast asleep.”

“What can I say?” Peter shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “I’m a night owl.”

For some reason, Stiles doubts that’s the whole story, but it would be rude for him to continue needling Peter about it right now. He takes a bite of his burger, crams a few grilled vegetables into his mouth, and asks, “How can I help?”

Peter looks disgusted with the way Stiles has stuffed his mouth full. “You can help by keeping your greasy fingers away from these books.”

“They’re my books,” Stiles argues as he wipes his hands clean on a napkin. “And to echo your sentiments, I’m in no position to turn away help—not even my own.”

“Good to know you’re still insufferable,” Peter mutters with disdain. “Fine. Tell me: have you remembered anything new? Or noticed anything particularly strange? It might facilitate our research efforts if we can focus on a specific direction. Something more narrow than simply _memory spells_.”

Stiles wonders how on earth _memory spells_ isn’t narrow enough, but he opts to think about that later.

“This might not be anything,” Stiles warns, “and I didn’t notice it at first because I just thought my instincts about people were spot-on or something. But now I’m beginning to think it’s more than that.”

“Go on,” Peter urges impatiently.

“I seem to recall instinctual feelings about people,” Stiles explains. “For example, I remembered you from your visits to the bakery, but those visits in no way inform my understanding of the animosity between us. And yet, I’m totally aware of it.”

That startles a laugh out of Peter. “ _Animosity_ is certainly one word for it,” he mutters darkly.

Stiles ignores him and continues. “And earlier last night, I was pulling stuff out of the fridge and the pantry like I somehow just knew where to find things, even though I still can’t remember ever being inside this house.”

“Hmm.” Peter strokes his chin as he considers. “That _is_ interesting.”

“But why?” Stiles asks. “Is it me remembering things? Or is it a symptom of my condition, if we can even call it that?”

“I’m not sure,” Peter says frankly. “But it further confirms all your memories are still floating around somewhere in that coconut of yours. And I think it must mean something or someone is triggering these so-called instincts.”

“Like my spark?” Stiles guesses. “Could that be the trigger?” It’s been pretty mysterious yet useless thus far. Really, it’s been a total nuisance. Stiles wishes it was responsible for triggering these _instincts_ about people because at least then, it would have some sort of use.

“Your spark isn’t a trigger,” Peter says decisively. “The trigger, whatever it may be, is also responsible for the brief occasions where your spark has activated outside of your control. If your spark was your trigger, then you ostensibly would’ve started remembering things much sooner since you’ve had your spark all this time, even though you weren’t using it.”

“Okay, I’ll buy that,” Stiles concedes, “but why should we assume my spark and my memories both have the same trigger?”

Peter replies with sarcasm at full blast. “Because we should, instead, assume two completely different triggers set off your memories and spark, respectively, at exactly the same time?” He sneers contemptuously. “That is highly unlikely, especially after two years of nothing.”

“That’s true.” Stiles furrows his brow and thinks. He’s really not sure how triggers even work. Does the trigger need to have appeared every time he remembers something? Or is it enough for the trigger to have appeared one time, and now it’s like the floodgates have opened?

He can’t pinpoint when the instinctual memories about people and things began trickling into his mind, but he knows his spark first made an appearance while he was in the woods with Derek and Kali. “Hey,” Stiles says suddenly as a thought occurs to him. “I’d still like to know what you were doing in the woods when Jennifer was attacking me.”

“Does it really matter?” Peter asks, affronted. “Why don’t you think about what you’d be doing if I hadn’t been there?”

“Why do you always have to go on the defensive?” Stiles asks, annoyed. “I’m grateful, okay? I was just curious. Geez.”

Peter snaps his book shut and gets up. He looks more tense than he does angry, but it still makes Stiles uneasy. “Before you waste your time wondering what I was doing there, ask yourself why you keep finding yourself in the woods.”

Stiles blinks, baffled by this question. But Peter has a point. When Kali and Jennifer appeared, Stiles had run straight into the woods, even though he can’t remember ever having gone into the woods before. When you’re running for your life, it’s absolutely insane to seek refuge in an unknown area, and definitely not when that unknown area is the deep, dark, mysterious forest. Yet, that’s exactly what Stiles had done. _Twice_.

Was it a random coincidence?

Was it instinct?

Are the woods his trigger?

“Derek thinks Kali and Jennifer aren’t real,” Stiles says slowly. “They both materialized in the woods.”

Peter cottons on quickly and snickers, amused. “And I showed up in the woods, so it must mean I’m not real either?” he surmises.

“I don’t know!” Stiles exclaims, throwing his hands in the air. “I doubt having a conversation in the dead of night with a figment of my imagination is the strangest thing that’s ever happened at this table, let alone inside a house full of _werewolves_.”

“Wouldn’t that mean I was after your spark, then?” Peter counters as he tucks a couple books under his arm.

Stiles shrugs one shoulder uncertainly. “Maybe you are.”

Peter smirks like that’s precisely the answer he’d anticipated. It makes Stiles shiver a little. “If I wanted your spark, I could’ve taken it by now,” Peter states calmly. “I could’ve taken it right here, at this table, with no one else around. I could’ve taken it while you were sleeping, alone and completely helpless.” He winks, then saunters out of the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he calls out softly, “Think about that.”

Stiles scowls. “Cryptic asshole.”

He feels much more awake once he finishes his food, so he decides to read some of the remaining books splayed across the kitchen table until everyone else wakes up. Since all these books apparently belong to him, he thinks at the very least it might be an interesting study of the person he used to be. However, he quickly discovers that’s not really the case. Everything on the table is a reference book, filled with facts, observations, and alphabetized lists. Using these to get an idea about a person is like trying to characterize a person based on the fact that he has encyclopedias or a dictionary or an atlas on his shelf.

Or maybe Stiles is simply afraid to admit the person he used to be seems kind of boring.

Regardless, he finds the books interesting enough to hold his attention. _Herbology of the Mind_ turns out to be a collection of herbs and plants that possess qualities that can influence the mind, and those traits can further be manipulated when combined with certain spells or ingredients. When he flips to the page about wolfsbane, Stiles is surprised to learn of its many uses. In its raw form, wolfsbane is harmful if not deadly to all living creatures. In a dehydrated, powdered form, it causes temporary hallucinations and can be debilitating. When burned, the smoke and vapors it produces can be dangerous in concentrated amounts, but the ashes possess healing qualities.

Stiles realizes with a start that the image of wolfsbane ashes printed in the book resembles the gunpowder Derek had rubbed into his bullet wound a week ago, at the bakery. That would mean Derek had been shot with a bullet filled with wolfsbane, and when Stiles took the “gunpowder” from a second bullet and set it on fire, he’d purified the wolfsbane.

It seems almost unbelievable that one little plant could have so many different uses, but the same is true for plenty of other things. For instance, eggs are used for omelets, and they can be scrambled, fried, poached, or boiled; eggs can also be used as an ingredient in cakes, or as a glaze over pastries; furthermore, when separated, egg yolks can be used in custards, and egg whites can be used to create meringues.

Come to think of it, Stiles’ cookbooks are kind of like these reference books, in that they’re simply a collection of facts detailing all the potential in a variety of ingredients. And that’s not boring. In fact, Stiles’ baking is what makes him who he is now, and these old books about herbs and spells and magic are what made him who he used to be.

He’s beginning to understand there isn’t much difference in the two versions of himself—not fundamentally, anyway. The revelation is comforting, to say the least. If only it meant he had a clearer idea of how to lift the block on his memories, or better yet, why he placed it there in the first place.

~ ~ ~

The house wakes up slowly, and Jordan, the hellhound, is first to make it downstairs, clad entirely in his deputy’s uniform once again. He greets Stiles, who is still perusing the books at the kitchen table, then brews a fresh pot of coffee, pours himself a mug, and sets the kettle to boil water for tea before whipping out his phone to thumb through e-mails or news, most likely. Derek comes down not long after, and he pours himself a mug of coffee and makes himself tea in a second cup. Stiles finds this a little odd, until Derek meets his eyes, smiles warmly, then sets the tea in front of him.

“Uh, thanks,” Stiles says, closing his books and stacking them neatly off to the side.

“It’s _yerba maté_ ,” Derek explains, sitting in the chair next to Stiles. “It’s yours, actually. You like it because it doesn’t have as much of a caffeine crash as coffee does.”

Stiles takes a careful sip, smacks his lips together, and finds he likes the taste just fine. “Cool,” he says. Then, after a moment, he adds, “Sorry for sleeping through dinner.”

“Can’t take you anywhere,” Derek teases.

Stiles rolls his eyes and has to try hard not to grin. It’s not that Derek is terribly funny…it’s just that _Derek_ makes him smile. Stiles knows he has a crush on the guy, but he firmly avoids analyzing the situation further than that. He has no idea what he and Derek are to each other when selective amnesia isn’t a part of the mix. This whole situation is messed up enough as it is; Stiles doesn’t want to screw it up beyond repair by acting on a silly crush, especially since Derek’s been so supportive the whole time.

“Really, though,” Derek persists, “everyone understood the situation, and it’s not like you can plan a panic attack.” Stiles appreciates his evolved perspective on the matter; not enough people understand that. “Did you sleep well?” Derek asks, changing gears. “How long have you been awake?”

“Only a couple hours,” Stiles replies. “The panic attack just added to my exhaustion, I guess. When I finally woke up, I considered going back to sleep, but these books are way too fascinating,” he says. “Peter told me you guys have been trying to find clues about my memory spell or whatever in them?”

Derek blinks, caught clearly off guard. “Back up. When did Peter say that?”

“A couple hours ago?” Stiles says uncertainly. “He was reading at the kitchen table when I woke up.”

Derek’s lips part slightly. “He was here?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says warily.

“Huh.” Derek sniffs the air, then frowns. “Well, he’s not anymore.”

“That will never not be weird,” Stiles mutters under his breath as he makes a mental note to buy himself more deodorant.

Derek ignores the remark. “Did he say anything else while he was here?”

“I dunno. Just said he was looking through the books to help, I guess.” Stiles shrugs his shoulders, unsure as to why Derek is trying so hard not to appear as though he’s bothered Peter was here at all. “You said he was in the pack. He’s allowed to be here, isn’t he? Because you’re being really weird about this.”

Derek takes a moment to gather his thoughts. “He’s in the pack,” he confirms at last. “But his motivations and intentions are always questionable at best.”

“Meaning it raises red flags he’s trying to help?” Stiles guesses.

“Meaning,” Jordan cuts in suddenly, “it raises red flags that he appears to be trying to help in secret. And completely out of the blue.”

Derek nods, expression grim. “I have no doubt he wants to help. But I can guarantee we don’t know his intentions entirely.”

Stiles’ eyes dart from Derek to Jordan and back again. “Is this a ‘keep your enemies closer’ situation?” he asks. “I mean, I can tell Peter’s hella sketchy, but you guys definitely don’t treat him the way you do the rest of your pack.”

“For good reason,” Scott says as he enters the kitchen. “Hey, buddy!” he greets Stiles happily as he helps himself to some coffee.

“Peter’s the one who turned Scott into a werewolf, without his consent,” Derek says, oblivious to Scott’s cheery mood. “He killed my sister—his own niece. He tried to kill me, and he’s tried to kill Scott. He’s probably tried to kill us all at one point or another, all in pursuit of the alpha power.” Derek pauses to heave a weary sigh. “He’s my family, but we can’t trust him. At least not without considering things from all angles. He’s capable of good, but it’s not always what he chooses.”

“Well, he seems to avoid you guys anyway,” Stiles says. “Why do you even let him stay in the pack if he’s just a liability?”

Scott and Jordan defer to Derek, who simply shrugs his shoulders and says, “He’s family.”

“Well, that was weirdly nihilistic and endearing all at once,” a girl announces from where she’s leaning against the entryway. Considering he’d had a chance to meet just about everyone before he conked out the night before, Stiles deduces this is Malia. She’s a tall, slender girl in cut-off shorts and a soft t-shirt. There is a rough edge to her that Stiles finds compelling, or maybe it’s simply the knowledge that according to Derek, Stiles and Malia used to go out. “Oh. Hi, Stiles,” she says like he’d never gone missing from their lives. And that’s all the attention she affords him before her gaze swings over to Scott. “I know we’re waiting on Deaton, but can we do pancakes?” she asks. “I saw blueberries in the fridge yesterday, and I want blueberry pancakes.”

“Pancakes sound good,” Scott says. “I’ll help.” And that effectively dispels the tense atmosphere that had settled over the kitchen with discussion of Peter and his unsavory ways. Shortly after that, Lydia, Kira, and Liam come downstairs and join in with breakfast preparations. Stiles wants to help as well, but the sheriff stops him when he arrives in the kitchen.

“The most unfortunate thing about your memory loss is that the humor of you having broken your phone is completely lost on you,” the sheriff says by way of greeting.

It isn’t completely lost on him. Stiles can infer enough, now that he thinks about it. “I take it this happens a lot?”

“You don’t even know the half of it,” the sheriff replies with a chuckle. “But I figured instead of buying a new phone, you might appreciate your old one.” He hands Stiles an iPhone protected by a beat-up but sturdy looking case. “I know it’s a couple generations outdated at this point, but it still works, and all our numbers are in it. And, uh,” the sheriff hesitates a bit and adds, “all your photos, videos, games, and whatever else is still on it. I left it exactly the way you left it.”

Stiles presses the home button and smiles at the background image: The photo shows him taking a selfie with Derek, one arm slung around the other man’s shoulders. Stiles is beaming brightly at the camera, while Derek is distracted by Scott in the background, who can just barely be seen in the space between Derek and Stiles, making a funny face at the two.

“I don’t think Derek’s ever stopped making that face,” Scott jests when he passes by and catches sight of the screen.

Hearing his name, Derek looks over, then glowers in a way that resembles the annoyed expression on Derek’s face in the photo. “Shut up, McCall,” he grumbles good-naturedly.

Stiles’ fingers are itching to unlock the phone so he can explore its contents, but he knows he wouldn’t be able to pay attention to anything else if he did. So, he pockets the phone and resolves he’ll pore over it later that day.

“Thanks,” Stiles says. And after an awkward pause that lasts too long, he adds, “ _Dad_.” He nods, nervous and stilted. “Thanks, Dad.”

A smile breaks out over the sheriff’s face, and he pulls Stiles in for a crushing hug.

“Weird,” Stiles mumbles into the sheriff’s uniform.

“What was that?” the sheriff asks, pulling back a little reluctantly.

“Your aftershave,” Stiles says slowly. “It smells…” he trails off, unsure of what he’s trying to articulate. “It smells spicy, I guess. Like aftershave? I don’t know, but I feel like I’ve smelled it before.” Stiles shakes his head, unable to put in words the details of the scent. “I mean, surely I’ve smelled it before. Only, I don’t remember having smelled it before since I don’t remember you,” he says, grimacing apologetically. “It’s…familiar,” he says, finally settling on the word.

“Like a memory,” the sheriff supplies. “Like something you’d forgotten until you remember you’d known it all along.”

That startles a laugh out of Stiles. “Yeah. Just like that,” he says. “God, this is so weird.”

“I hear that,” the sheriff says. “Maybe pancakes will make it less weird.”

Stiles quirks an eyebrow at him in response. “Aren’t you supposed to be watching what you eat?” he asks, recalling the whole reason he’d made cabbage rolls the night before.

“You forget everything but that!” the sheriff declares incredulously. “Figures.” He doesn’t really seem upset, though—merely resigned to a fate of healthy food choices in his near future.

“Well, they _are_ blueberry pancakes,” Stiles reasons. “I’m sure we can make an exception today.”

The sheriff does an exaggerated fist pump that sets everyone laughing.

By the time Dr. Deaton arrives, they’ve pulled an extra table into the kitchen so that everyone has a seat, and breakfast is served. They all eat like Stiles’ memory loss isn’t the only reason they’re together, and Stiles can’t help but find it a little disquieting.

Lydia asks Jordan how long he’s on shift for today, the sheriff politely inquires about Dr. Deaton’s veterinary practice, Malia complains loudly to Derek about the social convention of _pants,_ of all things, and Liam and Scott quiz Kira because apparently she’s studying for her deputy’s exam.

It’s all so normal.

Distantly, Stiles realizes that for the pack, it _is_ normal. This sort of breakfast must be common for them, and Stiles actually finds it kind of nice, even though he feels out of place since he can only sit and stare at all the conversations happening around him. Once again, he simply can’t comprehend how he fits into this group. Moreover, his mind is plagued with questions of his own as he continues trying to make sense of what he knows, what people like Derek are guessing, and then Peter’s cryptic comments as well.

“Guys?” Stiles interjects suddenly. He waits until everyone settles down, then asks, “What was I doing when you first figured out I’d lost my memories? Like, two years ago or whatever?”

The sheriff uses his napkin to wipe his mouth and says, “Well, you came to the station that day. I thought you were stopping by to visit or to bring me some dinner—you used to do that sometimes. But you didn’t know where you were or who anyone was. And, uh,” the sheriff stammers a moment, “the second you saw me, you fainted.”

The sheriff looks pained, and Jordan squeezes his shoulder to show his support. “The fainting was a result of the spell, obviously,” the sheriff continues. “You spent a couple nights at the hospital because every time someone from the pack tried to come get you, you’d just faint again.”

“At first we thought it was just your dad who couldn’t be near you—like maybe it was some family thing, or some spell targeting one specific person,” Scott says, picking up the story. “But I tried to come get you, then Lydia, and even my mom—”

“She’s a nurse at the hospital,” Kira supplies helpfully.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. Mom’s a nurse,” Scott says. “But anyway, like, half the pack tried to come get you—the other half was out in the preserve, searching for whatever might’ve attacked you. It wasn’t until Erica showed up at the hospital that you finally quit fainting. It was so random, but we weren’t going to question it since we were just glad we could finally get you out of there.”

Stiles sits there, somewhat stunned, as he tries to process all this new information. “Wow,” he breathes out. “I don’t remember any of that.”

“Take it easy, son,” the sheriff says. The way he says the word “son” makes Stiles feel warm and content in a way he isn’t used to. “How far back can you remember? Do you recall being in the hospital at all?”

“No, actually,” Stiles replies as he slowly parses through the few memories he can call to mind. “Everything’s just sort of a blur before I started up the bakery. And the bakery’s basically been my normal for the last two years, I guess. I dunno.” Stiles shakes his head, frustrated none of these holes in his memory ever occurred to him before. “How did I even end up at my loft?”

“That was us,” Scott says, gesturing to himself and the sheriff. “The building is near Dr. Deaton’s clinic, and I drove past it all the time. I knew it had been empty for a while, and we got it at a good price.”

“You’d been staying in our house at first, obviously,” the sheriff says. “But every time you wandered out of your bedroom, you’d faint sooner or later. After you fainted and fell down the stairs one time while I wasn’t at home, I knew I needed to figure out different living arrangements for you while we attempted to find a way to reverse the memory spell or whatever it was.”

“The plan was for you to live in your loft, and for Erica to sort of take up residence on the first floor of the building because as far as we knew, she was the only one who could safely be around you,” Scott explains. “We didn’t even tell the rest of the pack about your loft at first because we were beginning to get concerned with how many times you’d fainted. I mean, I’m still surprised you don’t have some sort of brain damage after all that fainting,” he says with a nervous giggle.

“ _Scott_ ,” the sheriff says in a reprimanding tone.

Scott collects himself again. “Yeah. Sorry,” he mutters, flushing slightly. “Anyway, Erica told us one day you just came down to the first floor and started planning your bakery, as though that was the entire reason you were in the building in the first place. The only thing she could think to do was apply to be a part-time worker, and for whatever reason, you hired her.” He shrugs his shoulders. “The pack’s been keeping an eye on you from a distance, of course, but it’s like you just found your own rhythm after a while. The bakery got up and running, you had clients, you ran newspaper ads, and it’s like your memory loss wasn’t even a debilitating factor after one point.”

Stiles furrows his brow in concentration, but he can’t recall even a fraction of what Scott and the sheriff have detailed. “I can’t remember signing the lease to the building, and now I know it’s because I’m not the one who signed it.” He curses under his breath as he runs a hand down his own face, and then another thought occurs to him. “I wasn’t even paying rent. I’m barely making ends meet, and I don’t even pay rent!” he exclaims, feeling like a failure as the realization sinks in. “How the hell did I function for two years without realizing I wasn’t paying rent?!”

“Well, Derek bought the building,” Scott says while Derek frantically shakes his head, like he hadn’t wanted Scott to reveal that.

“You _bought_ the building?” Stiles echoes flatly. Derek doesn’t say anything, suddenly preoccupied with shoveling breakfast foods into his mouth.

“To be fair, he didn’t know you were still living there,” Scott says. “I’m pretty sure he assumed having the bakery meant you were paying rent for both an apartment and the bakery.” Derek doesn’t confirm or deny, given his mouth is still full.

“God, I never even questioned anything,” Stiles says, judging himself harshly. “I’ve basically been a zombie for the past two years. How could I not have noticed any of this sooner?”

“It’s magic,” Deaton offers reasonably. He takes a sip of his orange juice and continues, “There’s no way you could have _thought_ your way around its effects. That was the entire point of the block you have on your memories.”

“But still,” Stiles bemoans, and Scott pats his back consolingly. “I mean, I obviously didn’t used to be a baker. Why’d I suddenly become a baker?”

“Your mom used to have this saying,” the sheriff interjects gently. “People bake to remember—”

“And they eat to forget,” Stiles finishes. It blows his mind to realize all the memories he has of his mother are still intact and accurate.

“Maybe that was your subconscious way of trying to remember,” the sheriff suggests, full of hope.

“But _still_ ,” Stiles persists. “How could I accept a whole new life so easily? And so convincingly?” he wonders aloud. “Did I just rationalize everything that might’ve seemed off, and that was it? Because that’s insane.”

“Well, it’s not natural for a person’s life simply to fall away like yours did,” Lydia reasons. “As soon as you had even an inkling of an idea regarding your bakery, your mind probably latched onto it simply to give your life some sort of meaning or purpose.”

Derek’s eyes light up as he murmurs, “The bakery acted as an anchor.”

“I think so,” Lydia says, nodding. “It kept him sane and grounded. Steady and balanced enough to navigate his swiss cheese memories without realizing they were swiss cheese memories.”

Stiles doesn’t want to think about this anymore. He’s ready to turn that swiss cheese into provolone. Or something. “Okay, what’s the game plan, doc?” he asks, shifting gears. “How do we get my memories back?”

Everyone at the table turns to focus on Deaton. “Well, I reached out to some contacts last night and this morning, but before we get to that,” the vet replies, “did you remember anything else since we last spoke?”

“Not really,” Stiles says, slightly embarrassed. “I sort of had a panic attack and was out for the count last night. However, when I woke up, Peter was here, and—” He cuts himself off upon hearing a chorus of groans from several people at the table. They _really_ don’t like that guy.

“I take it he said something?” Deaton inquires impatiently.

“He thinks there’s a trigger or something that’s making my spark and my memories resurface,” Stiles answers. “It’s why I asked you guys what I was doing when you figured out I’d lost my memories. I think my trigger might be the woods.”

“That’s certainly a possibility,” Deaton says, though he doesn’t sound particularly convinced.

“It would make sense,” Derek says thoughtfully. “You were in the preserve both times you used your spark against Kali and Jennifer.”

“Are we still operating under the assumption that they’re both figments of my imagination?” Stiles asks, not entirely convinced.

“Wait, what?” Jordan pulls a face. “I think I missed something.” Several other pack members around the table echo the same sentiment.

“Derek thinks Kali and Jennifer aren’t real,” Stiles explains quickly. “Cuz Kali didn’t leave behind any footprints, and cuz Peter killed Jennifer, and apparently Peter doesn’t do anything halfway.”

Lydia scoffs. “Yeah, right,” she mutters darkly.

“Jennifer _is_ dead,” the sheriff confirms with certainty. “The department found her body. And I know it was cremated. I kept an eye on that file in particular after everything she put us through.” He shudders slightly at a memory Stiles isn’t privy to.

“Did anything else worth noting occur in the woods?” Deaton asks.

“Not really,” Stiles replies. “Up until Kali came after me, as far as I can remember, I’ve never been in the woods. In fact,” he adds as afterthought, “I never even thought about the woods until I Googled Derek.”

Scott arches an eyebrow. “You Googled him?”

“Well, _yeah_. The guy broke into my bakery—”

“The door was unlocked!” Derek protests indignantly.

“Derek _broke into my bakery_ ,” Stiles continues, maintaining his narrative, “bled all over the place with a freaky, smoking purple bullet wound, which he healed with wolfsbane bullet ashes or whatever, and then he strolled out like nothing had even happened.” Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. “So, yeah. I Googled him. Wouldn’t you?”

“Probably not,” Scott admits, trying hard not to laugh at the way Derek’s sulking. “But I’m not surprised it’s what you did.”

“That Google search is actually how I figured out you even existed, Scott,” Stiles continues. “I found an article about Laura,” he says, wincing sympathetically at Derek. “The article had a picture of Derek getting arrested, and Scott and I were in the background.”

“With regards to the trigger, I’d like to pose a different theory,” Lydia chimes in. “What if, instead of the woods, Derek’s your trigger?”

Stiles opens and closes his mouth several times as he tries to contradict the suggestion, but he comes up dry. “Why would he be my trigger?”

The pack looks uneasily at one another until Lydia says, “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” Stiles says, scratching his head as he shifts his gaze to Derek, who is glaring daggers at Lydia. “I mean, if Derek hadn’t come into the bakery that day with his bullet wound, I probably would’ve remained completely oblivious to everything. I never would’ve Googled him, never would’ve seen myself in the background of the photo where he’s getting arrested in the preserve, and then I never would’ve thought to run into the woods when Kali came after me.”

Lydia stares down Derek’s glare, and she finally takes her eyes off him once Stiles finishes talking. “Yes. That’s exactly right,” she says, then crosses her arms and sits in silence.

“Okay,” Stiles says slowly, unsure of what’s going on. “In that case,” he continues, “I met one other person right around that time. Do you guys know someone named Kate Argent?”

Upon hearing the name, Derek actually growls as everyone else bristles uncomfortably.

“I’ll take that as an affirmative,” Stiles says, grimacing. He’s not necessarily surprised by Derek’s reaction, given what he learned from his Google searches, but he’s caught a little off guard by everyone else’s clear disdain. “Kate’s the one who chased Derek into my bakery that first day,” he goes on since no one else seems to want to say anything. “So, if Derek’s a potential trigger, wouldn’t that mean Kate might be as well?”

Everyone looks appalled at the mere suggestion, and Scott even gags a little. “Ugh, no!” he exclaims. “Seriously, there’s no way in hell Kate Argent’s your trigger.”

“I can’t believe she’s back _again_ ,” Lydia grouses before Stiles can say anything else.

“Wasn’t Chris supposed to take care of her?” Jordan wonders aloud.

Everyone turns expectantly to Scott, who blinks and says, “Yeah. Last I checked.”

“And when was the last time you checked?” Lydia asks, looking at him expectantly. “And you better not say _Mexico_ because the last thing we need in the middle of everything we’re dealing with is Kate popping up to shoot us all full of wolfsbane bullets.”

“Bit late for that,” Malia mutters, startling everyone by suddenly looking up from her food to offer commentary.

“I’ve talked to Chris since Mexico,” Scott says defensively as he pulls out his phone and begins tapping out a new message. “But I guess I could probably check in with him again.”

The sheriff frowns and adds, “If Kate Argent is back, someone should keep an eye on Peter after what happened last time with the two of them.”

“We’re on it,” Scott assures him confidently; he’s all business on this matter. “Kate or no Kate, we’ve been on Peter ever since he got out of Eichen.”

“You guys _are_ aware Kate’s listed as dead, right?” Stiles asks, drawing attention to himself again.

It’s somewhat discomfiting to note no one appears particularly surprised by this statement. “We know. Your point?” Lydia intones.

“Well, what if she’s after my spark?” Stiles suggests, glancing around the table to gauge everyone’s reactions. “Y’know, like Kali and Jennifer? They’re both supposed to be dead, just like Kate.”

“Except Derek said that Kali and Jennifer aren’t real or whatever,” Liam points out.

Stiles dismisses the comment with a wave of his hand. “That was just speculation.”

Derek sighs heavily as he reaches across his own chest to clutch uneasily at the shoulder where he’d been shot. “I don’t know if Kate even knows or cares about your spark,” he says carefully, “but she’s real, and she’s alive. Trust me.”

Stiles narrows his eyes skeptically. “But are you sure? How do you know?”

Derek simply won’t budge on the topic. “Kate’s still alive,” he says brusquely.

“Besides, Kate chased Derek into the bakery, right?” Scott says. “That means she existed outside the bakery.”

Stiles scrunches up his nose in confusion. “Huh?”

Lydia heaves a put-upon sigh then says, “He means your spark didn’t conjure up Kate. She existed outside your bakery, wreaking havoc, shooting Derek, following him into the bakery, etcetera. She did all that before you entered the picture that day.”

“Exactly,” Scott says, nodding gratefully at the clarification. “And Kali and Jennifer sort of just appeared to you all of the sudden, wherever you were. They just came out of nowhere, so it makes more sense your spark created them or whatever.”

“Also, they’re both _actually_ dead,” Liam adds. “Like, _for real_ dead. Making it weird they’re both now suddenly not dead and trying to kill you.”

“Right,” Scott says, pointing finger guns at Liam and looking pleased. “And all that makes it even more likely that your spark was actually responsible for creating the magical versions of Kali and Jennifer that attacked you.”

Stiles feels like all this theorizing involves an awful lot of hand-waving. “Why was Kate even after you?” he asks Derek, switching gears slightly. “I didn’t talk to her for long, but she seems…off. Like, borderline unhinged.”

Derek barks out a bitter laugh, but Scott answers. “Nothing borderline about it. She’s _completely_ unhinged. Kate murdered Derek’s family. She’s out of her mind, and she’s been after Derek for a while.”

“I know that part,” Stiles says. “Google,” he explains with a shrug.

“She’s deranged, man. You can’t apply normal logic to her actions,” Scott says. The expression on his face is somber, but it also silently urges Stiles to drop the topic.

Stiles complies, accepting the answer with a curt nod. “So, let me get all this straight,” he says, steadily laying out the facts as he understands them. “Kate, whose death was highly publicized, is actually alive because she somehow faked her death. But Kali and Jennifer are properly dead _for real_ , even though they both looked fairly alive when they were busy trying to kill me. And the explanation for that is… _magic_?”

“Yep,” Scott says, smiling brightly at him, like that isn’t the most convoluted explanation ever. “Got it in one!”

Stiles snorts derisively because apparently, this is his life now. “Okay. If we’re going with the theory that Kali and Jennifer aren’t real,” he says, putting Kate on the backburner for the time being, “how do we prove it?” he asks the group. “We’ve only got days to spare, and I’m thinking it’s wise we don’t just bank on a theory.”

“Agreed,” the sheriff says. He turns to Deaton and asks, “What do you think, Alan?”

Deaton seems to consider his answer for a moment before he slowly says, “It’s certainly a possibility that Kali and Jennifer are manifestations of Stiles’ spark.”

Stiles scoffs because he’s beginning to understand why Derek always seems annoyed by Deaton’s non-answers. They’re absolutely unhelpful!

“A lot of things are _possible_ ,” Lydia notes with exasperation. “Surely that’s not all you have to say on the issue.”

“Additionally, I’m finding it somewhat difficult to believe Stiles’ own spark would be responsible for creating seemingly sentient beings that want to harm him,” the sheriff says, worry creasing his brow.

Stiles gasps as he remembers something from the woods. “When Derek and Jennifer were fighting in the preserve yesterday, Jennifer said my spark was turning dark. And a dark spark would totally attack me, wouldn’t it?” he asks, looking around at everyone. “I mean, that’s a totally dark thing to do.”

Derek glances up in surprise. “You heard all that?”

Stiles splutters indignantly. “Yes, I heard all that!” he snaps. “Wait—were you keeping it from me?”

“No,” Derek answers too quickly. “I mean—” he pauses to reconsider his words. “Deaton said a long time ago that there was a darkness around your heart.”

“ _What_?!” Stiles shrieks. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“How long ago was this?” the sheriff demands at the same time, brimming with anger and fear. Stiles is momentarily stunned to learn this is news to his father as well.

“Nearly three years ago?” Scott guesses.

Stiles gapes at him. “You knew, too?”

“It’s around my heart as well,” Scott replies quietly.

“And Allison’s,” Lydia adds somberly.

“Who’s Allison?” Stiles asks, eyes flitting about the table. He’s met many people in the past day, and he hopes he hasn’t already forgotten someone.

“She was our friend,” Lydia states simply. Stiles wonders what happened to Allison. Is she not a friend anymore? Or something worse? “When Jennifer was actually alive, she went after your parents,” Lydia continues. “You, Scott, and Allison took part in a ritual in order to save them. The trade-off was a darkness around your hearts.”

The sheriff curses loudly. “Alan, how could you keep this from me?”

“It was before we read you in,” Deaton replies, not sounding the least bit remorseful.

“And then that’s when all the nogitsune stuff happened,” Scott says under his breath.

The sheriff gets up and starts walking away, like he wants to put some distance between himself and the table, but he does a swift about-face because he must realize he’d much rather be here for his son. “We’re talking about this later,” he promises, waving a threatening finger in Deaton’s direction.

Deaton accepts that with a curt nod.

“Okay, is my spark dark or not?” Stiles asks. “Would a dark spark try to kill its host?” He wrinkles his nose. “Am I a host?”

“That would make your spark a parasite,” Lydia says, frowning.

“Your spark is a part of you,” Derek says impatiently. “That much should be clear from your last encounter with Jennifer. Your spark can’t exist without you, and you can’t exist without it. You’re one and the same.”

It’s exactly what Stiles hadn’t wanted to hear. “Does that mean _I’m_ dark?” he asks with trepidation.

“No. Not necessarily,” Deaton replies carefully. The sheriff looks about ready to strangle the man. “The darkness around your heart makes you—and your spark—more susceptible to dark influences. But it’s not a guarantee. A spark turns dark only if it is your will.”

“This is such a load of crap,” Stiles grouses. “Ordinary people who don’t have to deal with all this spark stuff can be good or bad as well, all based on their will. And certain people are more susceptible to being good or bad, based on environment, upbringing, and other factors like that.”

“Yes, that’s correct,” Deaton says.

“Then why is it such a big deal where my spark is concerned?” Stiles complains. “One second, you’re making all this seem life-or-death, and the next second, it’s a bunch of hand-wavy ridiculousness. It just feels like we’re going in circles.”

“Let’s pull back for a second,” Lydia says when it appears everyone is at a loss for words. “You said Peter thinks you have a trigger, right?”

Stiles nods. “Right.”

“What made him say that?” she asks.

“I dunno.” Stiles runs through his encounter with Peter in the kitchen earlier that morning. “He was reading the books you were looking through last night.”

Lydia purses her lips and looks annoyed. “That isn’t an answer to my question. What made Peter suggest you had a trigger?” she asks again. “Did you remember something? Or was it something he found in the books?”

Stiles mouths wordlessly for a moment because he actually isn’t sure. Peter certainly didn’t make it seem like he’d found anything useful in the books, even though he’d left with a couple tucked under his arm. Stiles is beginning to understand what Derek had meant when he said Peter was always playing an angle.

“I don’t think it was anything I said,” Stiles concludes. “And if he found something in the books, he didn’t tell me about it.”

“Well, that’s helpful,” Liam says sarcastically.

Derek glares at him, irritated. “Just as helpful as your comment?”

“C’mon,” Kira says, quickly nudging Liam with her shoulder before he has a chance to run his mouth. “Help me clear the table.” Liam pouts but reluctantly moves to collect everyone’s dirty dishes. While they do that, Derek and Lydia spread the books in question across the table.

“Can you remember which ones Peter was looking at?” Derek asks.

Stiles grimaces. “Yeah, but he also took a couple with him when he left, so they’re not here.”

Derek curses under his breath, but Lydia remains calm. “That’s fine,” she says. “They’re reference books, anyway. Whatever was in the books Peter took will likely be in the books he left as well.”

Derek looks skeptical, but he doesn’t question her logic.

“I’ll start researching triggers as they relate to memory spells,” Lydia announces. “Derek, you have work today, don’t you? Here,” she says, pushing one of the smaller volumes at him before he can answer. “Look through that during your lunch break.”

“Oh, where do you work?” Stiles asks with interest.

Derek idly runs a finger down the table of contents and responds without glancing up. “A nursery downtown.”

Stiles’ brain nearly explodes. Derek Hale and _babies_? Holy God.

“A _tree_ nursery,” Scott states, a knowing look on his face. The sheriff snorts, doing a poor job of hiding his amusement.

“Obviously,” Stiles mumbles unconvincingly, even as he feels himself blush. In any case, Derek Hale on his knees, planting baby trees and watering plants, with muddy jeans and a smudge of dirt on his face is just as hot to imagine.

“Stiles,” Deaton calls, pulling him out of some borderline indecent thoughts about Derek doing _things_ in the garden center at Home Depot. “ _Stiles_ ,” he repeats himself, clearly not used to being kept waiting.

Stiles shakes his head to clear out his brain. “Yup?”

Deaton looks unimpressed but soldiers on. “As I said, I spoke with some contacts. Sparks are rare, so information about them is scarce, carefully guarded, and often passed down through bloodlines or packs bonds.”

That gets Stiles’ attention. It’s a relief to finally get some straight answers about his spark. “So, my spark is genetic?” he gazes uncertainly at the sheriff. “Are you a spark?” Stiles can’t even bring himself to entertain the possibility as soon as it’s out of his mouth. “Was Mom?” he asks hopefully.

“No,” the sheriff replies, a tinge of sadness in his voice. “But we discovered your great-great-grandmother was. On your mother’s side.”

Stiles lets out a low whistle. “Unreal,” he marvels.

“With that said,” Deaton continues, “you should have a _grimoire_. That’s the first thing you need before we can move forward.”

Stiles frowns, perplexed. “I can assure you I don’t have one of those,” he says with an anxious chuckle. “That’s the kind of thing I think I’d remember owning.”

“It’s probably cloaked,” Deaton says.

“Of course it is,” Stiles mutters flatly. “Er, what’s a grimoire again?”

“It’s a catch-all term for a book of magic,” Lydia answers. “Although, it’s really more like a magical diary.”

“That just makes me think of Tom Riddle and Ginny Weasley,” Stiles mumbles. The sheriff and Derek share matching grins at the remark.

“Magical diary is a fairly accurate description,” Deaton says. “And one documenting information from generations of sparks would be invaluable to you.”

“Okay. If it’s cloaked, where might it be?” Stiles asks. “And how do we uncloak it?”

Deaton spreads his hands and says simply, “That is your first task for today.”

“What.” Stiles looks at him in disbelief. “You want me to rely on my totally useless spark powers so that I can magically uncloak a _grimoire_ I might not even have?” he exclaims incredulously. “Finding a needle in a haystack of needles would be easier!”

“Technically, it wouldn’t be a _hay_ stack of needles if it consisted only of needles,” Lydia interjects without even looking up from the book she’s reading.

Stiles fumes. “Not helpful!” he shouts.

“He has a point,” Derek agrees, and the sheriff nods as well. “He doesn’t even know how to use his spark anymore, and now you want him to _use his spark_ to uncloak a magic item that might not even be anywhere near him.” Derek shrugs his shoulders. “It sounds somewhat unreasonable.”

“Wait a minute,” Stiles says before Deaton can respond. “You guys must have seen this grimoire,” he says. “I may not know where it is, but at least you can tell me what it looks like.”

“Why aren’t you listening?” Lydia demands, like Stiles is a moron or something. To be fair, he kind of is where his spark is concerned, but it’s not exactly his fault. Not really, anyway. “It’s cloaked,” Lydia reminds everyone. “It could look like a teacup right now, and we wouldn’t even know it.”

“Then it could be anywhere,” the sheriff says, sounding discouraged.

“I can assure you it’s nearby,” Deaton says. “A spark’s grimoire is a coveted item. It’s somewhere safe, and it’s somewhere close.”

“But you think it’s cloaked because Stiles with no memory of his spark wouldn’t have any need for his grimoire,” Scott sums up, and Deaton nods.

“Fine,” Stiles concedes. “It makes sense I probably hid this grimoire thing before wiping my memories for whatever reason. But what am I supposed to do once I find it?”

“Read it,” Deaton answers.

“And what? My memories instantly come rushing back?” Stiles asks cynically.

“No. You read it, and you learn how to control your spark again,” Deaton says. “Ideally, you’ll be able to work out how to lift the block on your memories, considering you’re the one who put it there.”

“I guess that makes sense,” the sheriff says, nodding along. “The grimoire is how you learned to control your spark the first time around.”

“No, it doesn’t make any sense at all,” Stiles says, frustrated. “How does learning how to control my spark do anything to break the memory spell? That’d be like learning how to drive but having no clue where to go,” he says. “Or are we just hoping when I find the grimoire, it’ll turn out I dog-earred the page with the counter-spell or whatever?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Deaton replies. His calm demeanor is absolutely infuriating.

“Are you serious right now?” Stiles says, exasperated. “We’re kind of on a tight deadline, and we’re actually banking on the hope I happened to jot down the counter-spell for a spell I used to wipe my own memories _on purpose_?”

Stiles doesn’t expect to hear a high-pitched shriek from somewhere else in the house in response to his indignation. All the werewolves at the table immediately stand up, alert, and the sheriff and Jordan instinctively reach for their holsters.

“Liam?” Scott shouts in alarm as he dashes off to inspect the disturbance. “Liam, what’s wrong?”

A moment later, Liam runs up to the table with Stiles’ backpack just barely pinched between two of his fingers. Wild electric blue sparks pop out of the bag, making an angry, fizzing, almost static-like noise. It appears as though someone set off a sparkler inside. “I swear I didn’t do it,” Liam says just as Scott and Kira get in behind him.

“Whoa,” Scott breathes out as he shuffles backwards a couple steps. He eyes Stiles and says with dismay, “Hope you didn’t have anything important in there.”

“Mom’s cookbook!” Stiles yelps in panic, snatching the backpack out of Liam’s hands. He violently unzips the bag, reaches inside, and pulls out the cookbook, which is crackling with what Stiles recognizes as his spark energy.

Liam peers inside the now open backpack. “I think the fire’s coming from your cookbook,” he says.

“That’s not a fire.” Derek bristles slightly and goes tense all over. “Nothing is actually on fire.”

Deaton lays a hand on Derek’s shoulder, which gets him to unclench a little. Then he says to Stiles, “I think you’ve found your grimoire.”

“What?” Stiles is still a little bewildered that the cookbook appears to be undamaged, even as blue spark energy continues to crackle and claw all over it. “This isn’t a grimoire.” He opens the book to a random page. “Coconut cream pie,” Stiles reads, pointing to the recipe on display. “Some people might argue it’s a magical recipe, but probably not one you’d want in a grimoire.”

“Search that thoroughly,” Deaton advises. “Your cookbook is displaying cloaking magic.”

“Wouldn’t displaying cloaking magic kinda go against the whole concept of cloaking?” Liam wonders aloud.

Deaton shoots him a reproving glare, though Stiles thinks the kid has a point. “Search it,” the vet repeats.

“It’s a cookbook,” Stiles insists as he hastily thumbs through the pages. “This is literally the most important thing I own. I think I’d know if it was secretly a book of magic.” Everything looks as expected until Stiles flips to the back of the book, at which point a _second book_ seems to materialize out of the back cover of the cookbook and drops with a heavy thud on the ground. “What the—” Stiles bends down to retrieve it.

The new book is bound in worn brown leather and feels at least four times heavier than the cookbook. “Neat trick,” Stiles mutters under his breath.

“I take it that’s the grimoire?” Jordan asks.

“Yes,” Deaton replies. “Well done, Stiles.”

“He didn’t really do anything,” Malia says, unimpressed. “All he did was turn to the back page.”

“Where he hid an entire book!” Scott exclaims proudly.

“It’s not a very secure hiding spot,” Malia counters. “What if someone else had flipped to the back page before Stiles got to it?”

“I’m siding with Malia on this one,” Stiles says as he shakes out the cookbook to make sure it’s not hiding an entire library in there. “That was too easy.”

“People can learn to detect the signs of cloaking magic,” Deaton informs them, “but the cloak, so to speak, can only be lifted by the person who cast the spell. Well, that,” Deaton adds, “or the cloak can be lifted by killing the person who cast the cloak.”

Derek responds to that with a menacing growl, and Stiles rather appreciates he isn’t the only werewolf at the table baring fangs at the vet.

“Well, I definitely didn’t feel like I was doing magic,” Stiles remarks. He flips to the last page of the grimoire and notes there aren’t any dog-earred pages. “Just so you know, I didn’t conveniently tag any counter-spells in here.”

“Then you’d better start reading,” Deaton says, looking quite pleased with himself. “It may be tempting to start at the end and read through your own entries first, but I would advise against that for now. Seeing as you read through the grimoire from beginning to end the first time around, I think it might be best you replicate that experience as you work to relearn all the nuances of your spark. Does that make sense?”

Stiles nods because it does, although he isn’t going to promise he won’t sneak a glance or two at his own entries. He’s much too curious for his own good.

“I’ll check in with my contacts again and ask if they think it’s possible your spark manifested into Kali and Jennifer,” Deaton continues. “I’ll report back when we meet for your shot this evening.”

“Most of the pack has school and work,” Derek says to Stiles, “so are you okay staying here on your own for the day?”

“It’s cool.” Stiles waves the grimoire at him. “Apparently, I have a lot of reading to do.”

“I can stop by during lunch,” Derek offers, clearly feeling bad for leaving Stiles to his own devices.

“No, you won’t,” Lydia says, sharply glancing up from her book. “You’re going to read during lunch, and then you can see him when you get back home, after work.”

“Bossy,” Liam mutters under his breath.

“I think you meant to say focused,” Lydia amends. “Or assertive?” She glares at Liam until he winces and looks away. Stiles has to appreciate Lydia’s unapologetic personality; there’s something refreshing about it.

“Parrish and I are on shift at the station,” the sheriff says, which has Jordan heading for the door, “but how about I stop by during lunch instead?”

“No, you guys, it’s fine,” Stiles says, trying his best to sound sincere. “I know you’re just being nice, and I appreciate it. But I’ve been alone for two years, and it’s really not as traumatic as you’re making it seem.”

“Well, you have our phone numbers,” the sheriff reminds him. “Call any time, kid.”

“I’ll be okay by myself for a few hours,” Stiles reassures him. “Trust me, Dad.”

A broad grin spreads across the sheriff’s face. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed hearing you call me Dad.”

He knows it isn’t the sheriff’s intention, but the comment only has Stiles feeling guilty about this entire mess once again. Not for the first time, Stiles desperately wonders why he would possibly have done anything to make himself forget about these kind, caring people.


	10. Chapter 10

Within half an hour, the house clears out completely. Stiles is curled up on the couch in the living room with the grimoire in his lap and his new-old iPhone on the coffee table. He’s still curious about what’s in the phone, but he knows it’s more important he spend his energy perusing the grimoire first. Everyone else in the pack is working hard to help him, so he also needs to do his part to resolve this memory spell fiasco. After all, the entire mess is his fault.

He starts at the beginning of the grimoire, which features beautiful handwritten entries in cursive from someone—an ancestor and fellow spark—named Halina, dating all the way back to the 1800’s. As he thumbs through the pages, he decides it really is kind of like a diary, in that Stiles often reads many of the same things since previous owners of the grimoire seemed to be more concerned with recording their own thoughts than with avoiding repetition.

He discovers immediately that the spark is highly responsive to one’s emotional state, which was obvious enough. _Emotional_ is an understatement to describe how Stiles had been feeling in the woods with Kali and Jennifer, respectively. And he’d lost his temper with Deaton when he’d inadvertently used his spark to locate and uncloak the grimoire.

After scanning through the entries from the first two sets of handwriting in the grimoire, Stiles determines that meditation is the first step to controlling his spark. That makes sense. If emotional outbursts cause the spark to act out of control, meditative calm ought to help tame it.

But try as he might, Stiles simply can’t sit still, doing nothing. Earlier in the morning, he’d spent over two hours straight reading through supernatural reference books without moving a muscle, but meditation is different. He needs something to focus on—something to hold his attention and make him forget he’s actually sitting still. That’s why he’d been able to read through the supernatural books in the morning; he’d been sitting still, but his brain was entirely occupied with consuming new information.

Now, when he closes his eyes and tries to force himself to sit still and meditate, his mind splinters into several different directions of thought: _What did Erica, Boyd, and Isaac serve up at the bakery today? Will I still be able to keep the bakery after I get my memories back and am reinstituted into the pack? The other pack members appear to have their own school or work obligations, so how has Claudia’s Bakery disrupted Boyd and Isaac’s lives today and Erica’s life for the past two years? Then again, plenty of people have part-time jobs. But Boyd and Isaac don’t actually work at the bakery, so what did they need to put off today to cover for me at the bakery? And I still need to make time to get the jeep serviced. Can my spark fix the jeep? What can my stupid spark even do? Oh, crap—my spark. That’s what I’m supposed to be figuring out right now!_

Stiles opens his eyes and groans in frustration when he checks the time on his phone. He’d lasted barely fifteen minutes, and he’s fairly certain he wasn’t actually meditating for any of it.

On a whim, Stiles flips to a random page at the end of the grimoire, where he finds his own chicken scratch handwriting staring back at him. It’s the most bizarre sensation reading these entries as he can’t remember having written them, though they’re clearly in his own voice. But Stiles doesn’t dwell on the disconnect long, as he’s immediately rewarded for his instinct to seek out his own entries, considering the very first one he wrote, dated two and a half years ago, includes the following note: _Meditation sucks balls. Double up on Adderall. Medication for the meditation, yo!_

Now, there’s a thought. Stiles has a prescription for Adderall, and he’s been known to play fast and loose with the dosage, much to Erica’s chagrin. She tells him not to self-medicate, but sometimes the bakery gets slammed with orders—especially during holidays or around graduation time—and a little extra Adderall can go a long way. He knows it’s a problem, but it isn’t one he’s going to address today.

Stiles’ backpack is in the kitchen, but his Adderall is in the duffel bag he packed his clothes in. He’s not sure where his bag could be, until he remembers Derek had said all pack members have a room in the pack house, whether they use it or not. Stiles assumes that means he has his own room here as well, and that’s probably where he’ll find his duffel bag. It’s a good a place as any to start, so Stiles saves his place in the grimoire, grabs his phone, and goes off in search of his room.

It’s a strange scavenger hunt of sorts, considering none of the bedrooms are labeled, so Stiles has to investigate each individual room to determine whose it could be. The first floor of the house includes several rooms but only two bedrooms. One is fairly empty, and Stiles almost thinks it’s a guest room until he peeks into the closet to find an entire wardrobe that resembles Peter’s sleek and stylish fashion. The other room is somewhat messy and features noticeable claw marks on the windowsill. Several pairs of cut-off shorts scattered across the floor tells Stiles he’s probably standing in Malia’s room.

Stiles heads upstairs next, where the landing splits off into two hallways, each lined with doors. He chooses to go left, almost on instinct. The first doorway leads into a bathroom, but the one after that is clearly a bedroom shared by Scott and Kira, as both their high school lacrosse jerseys are pinned to the wall. Moreover, several rather adorable photos of them are displayed in picture frames throughout the room. The next bedroom contains a neatly made bed and a handful of cardboard boxes shoved into one corner. In spite of the fact his duffel bag is nowhere in sight, Stiles wonders for a brief moment if the boxes hold his things from before he lost his memories. But then he opens one and discovers what are clearly a girl’s clothes. He rotates the boxes until he’s able to confirm they all apparently belong to someone named Cora.

Stiles puts everything back the way he found it and crosses the hallway into what is clearly Erica’s room because he can recognize some of her clothes and shoes. He remembers Derek said she and Boyd share a room, so that means this is Boyd’s room as well. The bedroom next to that one is another that is rather barren, but after inspecting clothes he finds crammed into drawers, he deduces from all the long pant legs that this is Isaac’s room as he’s one of the tallest members of the pack. In fact, Stiles is fairly certain only Boyd is taller than Isaac, but considering Boyd shares a room with Erica, Stiles can conclude he’s currently in Isaac’s room.

Finally, Stiles heads for the last door at the end of the hallway. Even from the outside, it looks like a large master suite, so Stiles is pretty sure it’s not his room, but he resolves it can’t hurt to check it out since he’s poked around everyone else’s bedrooms already. Add curiosity to his list of problems that won’t be addressed today.

Without further ado, Stiles twists the doorknob and pushes into the room. It is, indeed, larger than the other bedrooms. This one has its own private bathroom plus another door, which Stiles assumes is a walk-in closet. There’s an overflowing bookshelf next to a large bay window that overlooks the tree line, and a king sized bed pushed against one wall and framed by matching nightstands on either side of it. One nightstand looks rather neat with a pair of black-framed glasses resting atop a novel, a lamp, and a digital alarm clock, while the other is cluttered with a few piles of different books, a phone charger wrapped several times around the base of a lamp, and a box of cookies shoved between the nightstand and the bed. This is clearly a bedroom two pack members share, but which two?

The room doesn’t contain a single photograph, though there’s no mistaking whose leather jacket is draped over the post at the foot of the bed. “Derek?” Stiles murmurs as he reverently runs a hand over the jacket. Derek hadn’t seemed overly affectionate around anyone in the pack, but Stiles has to admit it isn’t beyond the realm of rational thought that someone as attractive as him would have a significant other.

Stiles bypasses the bookshelf to open the closet door and is instantly assaulted with the sweet, smoky scent of wood, spicy aftershave, and leather. The right side of the closet clearly holds Derek’s clothes, all dark, solid colors and a mix of rugged yet comfortable fabrics. And the left side features more bright colors, graphic tees, a startling amount of flannel, and other items fit for a slightly smaller frame than Derek’s. Most interestingly, unless Stiles is mistaken—and he could be—he has a feeling Derek shares the room with another man.

The floor beneath Derek’s boyfriend’s clothes is lined with a couple pairs of nice dress shoes as well as a few pairs of beat-up sneakers. And pushed against the far, back wall is an oak chest probably responsible for the woodsy scent in the closet. Upon closer inspection, Stiles notes the top is marked with the same swirling, three-pronged tattoo Stiles remembers seeing on Derek’s back.

Obviously, the trunk is Derek’s; there’s no question about it. And it must be important, too. People don’t just go around marking random objects with personal tattoos.

Stiles knows he should leave. He needs to find his bag so he can take his Adderall and continue with learning how to control the spark. Also, he needs to quit being a jerk and rifling through everyone’s belongings.

And yet, something about the oak chest calls to him. Maybe it’s plain old curiosity. Maybe it’s something else. But it’s almost an out-of-body experience as Stiles approaches it, kneels to the ground, and watches as his hands get closer and closer to the chest to undo the heavy metal latch and pry the lid wide open.

An enormously long and poorly knit multi-colored scarf is draped over the top, and when Stiles pushes it aside, his mouth falls open in utter shock as he stares at a cheap picture frame showcasing an old photo of Derek and himself. The Stiles in the photo has his arm stretched out of frame, so he’s obviously taking a selfie as he and Derek stand under mistletoe, _kissing on the lips_. The Stiles in the photo is simultaneously grinning and kissing as he peeks at the camera, while Derek looks positively blissful as he returns the kiss with his eyes closed.

Stiles’ mind races, and he breathes hard as he paws through the trunk and finds several more pictures of himself with Derek, movie ticket stubs, old birthday and Valentine’s Day cards, little trinkets and knick-knacks, a half-full box of _condoms_ —

Stiles drops everything. “Oh, my God,” he chokes out as he does an awkward crab walk away from what might as well be Pandora’s Box. He catches sight of the sneakers, and he uses his eyes to measure the clothes on the left side of the closet as facts he wasn’t ready to address begin slotting into place.

“What is actually happening?” Stiles wonders aloud as he tugs on his own hair. And then he finally voices what he’s realized as truth. “I’m dating Derek Hale!”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Stiles feels the familiar numbing tingle in his fingertips—still buried in his hair—a second before blue sparks crackle from his palms, zap his scalp, and send him flying across the room and straight into the bookshelf.

“Son of a bitch!” Stiles yells as he throws his arms up over his head while several books from the shelf rain down around him. A few hit him on the way down, and he’s fairly certain he’s going to have bruises across his shoulders, but otherwise, he’s fine.

Stiles glares disdainfully at his hands as he shakes them out, as though that will get rid of his unpredictable spark, and then he quickly begins shoving the books back onto the shelf. But as he closes and reshelves them, he discovers, in fact, that _every_ book that fell to the ground is open to the first page. Stiles vaguely writes it off as a weird coincidence until he realizes the title page of each book is marked with his own name.

Stiles gapes at the books, then at his hands, and then up at the shelf as he comes to the understanding that this is his bookshelf, and these are all his books. _This is his room_. This is his room he shares with _Derek_.

As if that isn’t confirmation enough, Stiles digs out his phone from his pocket and finally unlocks it for the first time. He gawks momentarily at the 212 unread text messages but ignores them for the time being to access his photos instead. He finds the customary images of iced coffee drinks and food, quirky graphics saved off the Internet, and some photos of people from the pack, too. And mixed in with all that are several pictures of Derek—in the preserve, gardening, making coffee, flashing his fangs at the camera, sleeping in bed—

Stiles glances up from the phone and at the bed—at _their_ bed. Where he’s probably had sex with Derek Hale. _Sex_! That’s what people who share beds do, isn’t it? Sleeping and sexing are the only two reasons you’d ever want to share a bed with anyone!

“Holy crap,” Stiles whispers aloud, completely freaked out.

He isn’t sure what to think. Even though he hasn’t lived here for the past two years, Derek has left Stiles’ books, clothes, and even his side of the bed exactly the same. The room is a strange sort of shrine to their relationship, and yet, Derek hasn’t uttered a single word to Stiles about their history. What’s up with that? It’s not like Stiles would expect them to pick up from where they left off. Memory loss certainly complicates issues of consent. But to not mention their relationship at all? And, Stiles realizes with a start, to make sure no one in the pack mentions their relationship either? Seriously, what gives?

Suddenly, Derek’s voice calls out from downstairs. “Stiles?”

“Derek?!” Stiles yelps, just barely managing not to drop his phone. He wonders idly how long he’s actually been sitting there, and why Derek is home so early.

“What’re you doing up there?” Derek questions as he climbs the stairs, footsteps steadily growing louder as he approaches the room. “I brought curly fries!” he announces, voice light and happy.

Stiles’ eyes go wide as he surveys the mess he’s made. He abandons the books and decides it’s more important he puts everything back inside the oak chest. It feels weird to hide all this incriminating evidence about his relationship with Derek, but the only thing Stiles keeps thinking about is how he wasn’t even meant to look inside that trunk in the first place. He’s confused as to why Derek is hiding their relationship, but Stiles feels far guiltier about this huge invasion of privacy.

He hastily places everything back inside the chest, spreads the scarf over the top, shuts the lid, and just manages to step out of the closet when Derek enters the bedroom.

“What were you doing in there?” Derek asks, coming to an abrupt halt at the door. He’s holding a large paper bag that smells strongly of fried food.

“Um. I was looking for my stuff,” Stiles offers by way of explanation. Then his eyes land on the books still scattered on the floor. “Also, books.”

Derek frowns, brow furrowed, and marches over to the closet. Stiles tries to stand in his way, but in his attempt to appear casual, he isn’t the most effective barrier, and Derek is able to get around him with minimal effort.

Derek gasps, and when Stiles whirls around, he discovers that stupid, huge scarf is sticking out from a corner of the oak chest.

Stiles runs a hand down his own face. “Crap.”

Derek turns back to stare at Stiles, completely aghast.

“Okay, I know I shouldn’t have looked,” Stiles says defensively. “I really was trying to find my stuff cuz I needed my Adderall because in the grimoire—” Stiles cuts himself off because that explanation isn’t important when the raw expression of hurt on Derek’s face makes him feel like he’s committed a huge breech of trust. _Because he has._

“I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to. But— Just—” Stiles stammers for a moment as he tries to figure out what to say. “Why would you keep all this a secret?” he asks, flinging an arm towards the chest. “I mean, I know this whole situation with me is _hella weird_. We’ve established that already,” Stiles admits. “But why wouldn’t you—” He stops as he’s unsure of how to finish the sentence. Moreover, in spite of the fact that he knows he’s in the wrong here, Stiles can’t help but feel betrayed.

“Your stuff is in the guest room,” Derek murmurs finally. “In the other hallway.”

Which does make sense. Even though this was clearly Stiles’ room at one time, he can understand why Derek wouldn’t expect Stiles to share a bed with him now. As much as Stiles enjoys fantasizing about Derek and his handsome _everything_ , it might be awkward to sleep in bed with him when he can’t even remember knowing the guy. And ‘awkward’ doesn’t even begin to cover how Derek would feel about the situation.

Stiles waits for Derek to say something more, but he appears to be in a daze as he stares at the various parts of the room where Stiles touched things.

“Um,” Stiles says, breaking the silence, “where in the other hallway is the guest room?” He figures it’s best not to barge into any other rooms uninvited if he can help it.

Derek blinks up at him, his face inscrutable. “First door on the right,” he replies faintly.

Stiles stands there a moment longer, but apparently, they’re not going to talk about this right now. He gazes dolefully at Derek, offers him a tight-lipped smile that isn’t returned in the slightest, and leaves without another word.

~ ~ ~

Turns out an intensely uncomfortable situation makes centering his mind on the task of meditation worlds easier. The Adderall helps, too.

Stiles loses track of the afternoon as he pores over the grimoire and learns how to generate a crackling orb of spark energy the size of a golf ball in his palm. All it required was for him to focus enough to control the magic he’s evidently been leaking all over the place anyway. Unfortunately, he’s not sure what he can do with it, and he doesn’t exactly want to launch it at anything in the house, so all he can do is roll it around his hands and stare at it. It’s certainly more than he knew this morning, however, so Stiles allows himself to feel proud of this small accomplishment.

At some point during all this meditation, he realizes Derek snuck into the living room and left him his share of the fast food. By the time Stiles opens the paper bag, the curly fries are floppy and cold, but they still taste good. He munches on them with his right hand and turns pages in the grimoire with his left, firmly avoiding further thoughts about how much he’s screwed up everything with Derek.

By the time Stiles starts hearing the front door open and shut as people begin returning home for the evening, he’s learned how to control the size of the spark energy he forms in his palm, and he’s almost mastered tossing the spark from one hand to another without it fizzling out of existence mid-air.

So much concentration leaves him a little sweaty, winded, and exhausted, and he knows from notes in the grimoire that it’s the cost of using his spark. It’s a part of his very being, so using his spark has the same effect as running, for instance. He can’t keep it up forever without pausing to rest and replenish his body.

“You’re getting pretty good at that.”

“Gah!” Stiles shrieks, caught off guard. A baseball-sized orb of spark energy practically leaps out of his hands and knocks over a stack of coasters from the corner of the coffee table.

“Sorry,” Scott apologizes as he rushes over to clean up the mess.

“I’ve sort of figured out how to control my spark, and yet I still do _that_ the first instance I’m the slightest bit startled,” Stiles grouses.

“You’ve barely been at it a day,” Scott says consolingly.

Stiles knows he’s right, but it’s still a little disheartening to think about how much further he must have to go. “According to Deaton’s calculations, I have three more days, at most,” he laments. “By then, his serum is going to wear off, and I’ll go back to having no idea who you guys are.”

“Don’t think like that. You can do this. I know you can,” Scott says in earnest. “But you need a break, and it’s my turn to cook dinner. Wanna help?”

Stiles does. The kitchen is his Zen place, so to speak. But he still has so much more to do with the grimoire. Stiles isn’t sure he can spare the time to take a break.

“C’mon,” Scott urges. “You don’t want to burn out. A break will be good for you. And besides,” he adds with a wry grin, “everyone will be grateful for your culinary expertise because I have to say, I’m not the best cook.”

Stiles quirks an eyebrow disbelievingly. “You’re not just saying that to foist your duties onto me?” he asks teasingly.

“Maybe a little of that, but dude—I messed up _stir fry_ ,” Scott confesses with a grin on his face. “Literally, the directions are in the name. _Stir_ and _fry_. And I couldn’t even manage that!”

Stiles laughs and closes the grimoire. “Okay, I’ll help. You’ve convinced me,” he says as he gets up and stretches his arms high above his head.

“Great!” Scott cheers. “Because I’m supposed to prepare cod tonight, and I have no idea where to begin. I burned it all beyond recognition the last time I tried, and we ended up ordering pizza.”

Once they’re in the kitchen, Stiles teaches Scott a simple recipe that involves seasoning the fish with salt and pepper, laying slices of lemon and pats of butter on top of the fish, then baking it all for half an hour. They’re slicing Brussels sprouts in half when Erica, Boyd, and Isaac walk into the kitchen.

“What smells amazing?” Isaac asks, sniffing the air. “I thought it was Scott’s turn to cook.”

“Rude,” Scott complains. “I mean, totally warranted,” he admits, “but still. _Rude_.”

Isaac peeks over Scott and Stiles’ shoulders. “Gross. Brussels sprouts,” he remarks, pulling a face.

“Wow. You _are_ rude,” Stiles replies with a scowl.

“Stiles promises they won’t be bitter,” Scott says. “Apparently, if you roast them in a pan, and season them with a little salt, pepper, and butter, they taste just fine.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Isaac huffs loftily.

“Oh, hush,” Erica says reprovingly. “You love Stiles’ cooking. Quit giving them a hard time.”

“Hey. I covered his shift all day,” Isaac protests. “I can give him a hard time if I want.”

“If I remember correctly,” Boyd says, “you spent most of your time snorting powdered sugar and eating frosting.”

“I didn’t _snort_ the powdered sugar,” Isaac says indignantly, though he doesn’t deny he indulged his sweet tooth. “Besides, I was working the register. There was downtime, okay? Ugh. Just call me when the food’s ready,” he says, then stomps out of the kitchen.

“Really, though,” Stiles says as he finishes chopping his share of the Brussels sprouts. “Thanks for covering for me at the bakery today. You really didn’t have to, but I appreciate it.”

“Well, Erica actually works there,” Boyd replies with a straight face. “You should definitely thank me, though.”

“Yes, it was a real hardship to spend all day with your gorgeous, charming girlfriend,” Erica snarks as she gives Boyd a teasing glare.

Boyd smiles at her, pecks her on the cheek, then wanders into the house.

“So, how’d you keep yourself busy today?” Erica asks as she hops up on the counter next to where Scott’s still chopping.

“He figured out his spark!” Scott announces excitedly before Stiles can say anything.

Stiles scoffs. “I didn’t figure it out.” Then he wipes his hands on a dish towel and conjures up a glowing blue ball of spark energy in his palm. “I did figure out how to do this, though.”

Erica’s eyebrows shoot into her hairline. “Whoa! That’s pretty awesome!”

Stiles shakes out his hand, and the spark disappears. “Hardly,” he says. “I can’t really do much more than that.” With a self-deprecating laugh, he adds, “Not unless it’s on accident.”

“What did I tell you? It’s only been a day,” Scott admonishes.

“Yeah, yeah.” Stiles waves him off and measures out couscous and water to complete the meal they’re creating. “Was the shop busy today?”

“Nothing more or less than usual,” Erica replies. “The Carver twins’ parents did send over a referral, though, so you have a new custom order to fill for a beach party. I left the notes and a box of Teddy Grahams the clients provided next to the stand mixer.”

Stiles nods. “Cake or cupcakes?”

“Cupcakes,” Erica answers. “But it might take a while. Their idea is kinda insane and involved, and they want jumbo, muffin-sized cupcakes.”

Stiles hums appreciatively, interest piqued. Insane, involved custom orders are his favorite kind. He loves when he gets to be creative with his baked creations.

“Hey, Erica,” Stiles says as a thought suddenly strikes him. “I haven’t been keeping you from anything, have I?”

Erica frowns, confused. “How do you mean?”

Stiles sighs. “Well, even though I apparently dropped out of my own life, I’m beginning to realize you guys still have school and work and other obligations and, I dunno,” he stammers for a moment as he tries to gather his thoughts, “I just don’t want to be keeping you from your own lives, I guess.”

“You honestly think I’ve been ignoring my own life for a part-time gig at your shop?” Erica asks incredulously.

Stiles shrugs his shoulders. “Yes?”

“It’s not like you held her hostage in your bakery,” Scott points out with a laugh.

“Yeah,” Erica agrees. “And you’ve been paying me.”

“But you _want_ to be working there, right?” Stiles asks uncertainly. “It’s not something you just got stuck with because the pack thought you were the only one who could be near me without my head exploding?”

Erica jumps off the counter and wraps Stiles in a warm embrace that catches him a little by surprise, even though he saw it coming. “I know I joke around and tease you a lot,” she says gently as she pulls back, “but never think it’s been a chore to be around you, okay?”

Stiles only nods, feeling a little embarrassed at being the focus of so much emotion. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Been doing a lot of thinking and overthinking the past couple days.”

“I don’t know how that memory spell works, but I’d like to think there’s a reason even the supernatural _Powers That Be_ didn’t want to split up Batman and Catwoman,” Erica says with a wink.

The mere thought lifts Stiles’ spirits and brings a smile to his face.

“By the way,” Erica says as she reaches into her purse and pulls out a large, heavy, and clunky metal _thing._ “This is a gift.”

Stiles accepts the object simply because Erica drops it into his hands. “Wow. Uh, thank you?”

“Well, that’s not actually the gift,” Erica says. “That’s the old part.”

Stiles blinks, still completely clueless as to what she’s talking about. “The old part of what?” he asks. “What’s this supposed to be?”

“That’s a part from your car,” Erica says, rolling her eyes. “You won’t remember this, but I sort of ripped out a part of your car’s engine a long time ago and used it to knock you out?” She winces at Stiles and Scott’s identical looks of horror. “Yeah. Not one of my finest moments,” she admits. “Anyway, it was Derek’s idea I finally get around to making it up to you by acquiring the part he needed to fix your jeep.” She hooks her thumb over her shoulder, then says, “He’s out there right now, if you want to check it out. Make sure he’s treating Rosie with the care she deserves.”

“It’s _Roscoe_ ,” Stiles corrects automatically. Erica always messes up his jeep’s nickname on purpose, simply because she’s amused that it annoys him. “Anyway, the fish is almost done baking, so I really shouldn’t leave,” he says, setting the car part on the kitchen island with a heavy thump. “I’ll thank Derek properly later.”

Both Erica and Scott snicker at that. “I bet you will,” Erica says, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Oh, grow up!” Stiles yells, losing his temper for a second, which results in a shower of blue sparks to rain down from his fingertips. “Dammit!” he curses as he curls his hands into fists and concentrates for a moment to get them to stop.

Scott’s at his side in seconds. “Dude, relax,” he says, placing a careful hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

“It was a joke,” Erica says, concern written across her features. “Is everything okay with you? Did something happen today?”

“Everything’s fine,” Stiles lies. But then he remembers he can’t get away with lies anymore in a house full of werewolves, so he recovers by adding, “I guess I’m a little more tired than I thought.” The statement is true, but it’s obviously not the whole truth.

“I told you that you needed a break,” Scott says as he turns back to the cutting board; however, Erica doesn’t appear to be as convinced as him.

Luckily for Stiles, the oven timer beeps right then, sparing him from continuing his awkward attempt at covering up his outburst. “That’ll be the cod,” he says. “I’ll go see Derek and the jeep later,” he assures as he snags a pair of oven mitts and slides the fish out of the oven.

Erica eyes him dubiously, and Stiles avoids looking at her until she finally leaves the kitchen. He knows he’ll be hearing about this later, but Stiles hopes he can hold her off until he’s had a chance to set things right with Derek. The bigger problem, of course, is he’s not sure how to begin going about doing that.

Dinner is served within half an hour. Deaton and the sheriff join the pack once again, and only Jordan is absent because he’s working a double, and his shift hasn’t quite ended yet.

Derek is last to arrive at the table, as he needed to wash up after working on the jeep. He hands Stiles the keys and is all business as he says, “Roscoe should be fine now, but let me know if anything feels off.”

Stiles crams the keys into his pocket and feels awkward and strangely exposed as he mumbles, “Thank you.”

Derek takes a seat across from him and doesn’t say anything more. It’s absolutely maddening. Does this mean they’re just never going to talk now? Ordinarily, Stiles would be okay with that. He’s a big fan of ignoring a problem until it goes away. But Derek isn’t a problem, and Stiles certainly doesn’t want him to go away. As much strife as this entire mess with his memories and spark has caused, Stiles can’t deny his life is better for it, simply because it’s brought him back to this pack. Back to _his_ pack.

“I hear you’ve made some headway with your spark,” Deaton says, interrupting Stiles’ thoughts about Derek. “I take it the grimoire has facilitated your efforts?”

That’s an understatement, but Stiles responds by producing a crackling ball of spark energy in his palm. “Tada,” he says lamely. Some of the pack members who haven’t seen that trick yet look impressed. Then, Stiles closes his hand around the glowing orb, and the spark winks out of existence.

“Very nice. I’m pleased with your progress,” Deaton says. “Unfortunately, my news won’t be as satisfying to hear.”

“Great,” Isaac blurts out. “Now what?” Erica elbows him, which causes him to scowl, but it also silences further commentary.

“According to my contacts,” Deaton continues, “it is entirely possible your spark, combined with the darkness surrounding your heart, generated the manifestations of some of your worst enemies. Magic is highly susceptible to both positive and negative energy.”

“But he can’t even remember Kali and Jennifer,” the sheriff says, trying to keep up. “With the memories Stiles does have, his ‘enemies’ must be annoying customers at worst.”

Deaton shakes his head immediately and says, “Stiles retains all his memories; he simply does not have access to them.”

“But his spark does?” the sheriff asks skeptically. “If it can tap into his memories to create images of Kali and Jennifer, then why can’t Stiles access his own memories, too?”

“This isn’t something you can talk or reason your way around,” Deaton says, clearly frustrated he’s having trouble getting his point across.

“Oh!” Stiles suddenly says before the sheriff can respond. “It’s kinda like I’ve got one arm tied behind my back, right?” Deaton’s face lights up as he instantly cottons on to the analogy. “Theoretically, I have the ability to do things with both my hands. But if one is tied behind my back, I can only use my free hand, even though both my hands are fully functioning.”

“Yes. Something like that. Excellent,” Deaton says, and Stiles can’t help but preen a little at the praise.

“So, if Stiles’ spark really is responsible for conjuring up Kali and Jennifer, how do you propose we proceed?” Derek asks.

“That is on Stiles,” Deaton replies. “It is imperative he masters his spark as quickly as possible. Right now, he’s essentially leaking magical energy at an unpredictable rate, and I fear what his spark will manifest as next if he doesn’t learn to control it soon.”

Malia curses loudly then says, “What if it’s the dread doctors next?”

“Or the beast?” Liam chimes in, like that’s supposed to mean anything at all.

“Guys.” Scott’s eyes grow round with trepidation, and he whispers low, like he’s worried Stiles’ spark might overhear. “The _nogitsune_.”

“Okay,” Stiles interjects, “someone still needs to tell me what _that_ is—” He’s interrupted by a chorus of _not its_ , which certainly doesn’t help him feel any better about it. “Wow. Really mature, kids.”

“Instead of fixating on details that don’t matter at the moment,” Deaton says, raising his voice over the petty quibbling, “I suggest you focus your energy on the task at hand.”

“Right. I know. Master the spark,” Stiles intones as everyone quiets down again. “I still don’t understand how that’s supposed to help me get my memories back, though.”

“It won’t,” Deaton says slowly, like he isn’t sure why Stiles hasn’t made the connection himself.

“What?!” Stiles yelps. “Shouldn’t we be dealing with the memory problem first? And if not first, then simultaneously? That’s the one with an actual deadline.”

“True,” Deaton concedes, “yet your spark may continue to manifest into unruly creatures, regardless of whether or not you remember us, so I would argue that issue is much more pressing.”

“Well, because rational self-interest is a thing, I want control of my own life again. That involves regaining my memories,” Stiles persists. “I mean, I see what you’re saying. It’s a really good point,” he admits. “But why aren’t both my spark and my memories equally pressing when I’ve only got days to spare?”

Deaton purses his lips and exhales sharply through his nose. “You’re the one who blocked your own memories,” he states rather bluntly. “That significantly complicates my efforts to help you retrieve them.”

Stiles’ rebuttal dies on his lips, and he feels his face heat up as he’s once more consumed with guilt at being reminded this entire predicament is his doing. It doesn’t matter if he can’t remember what he did; in the end, he’s still the one who’s responsible. He ought to quit whining and be grateful the pack has chosen to help him at all, in spite of his role in everything.

“Don’t worry, kid. We’re going to figure this out,” the sheriff says while shooting a dirty look at Deaton.

“I only meant to suggest learning to control your spark appears to be the easier task to accomplish,” Deaton clarifies, his tone much calmer this time. The sheriff is still frowning at him but doesn’t look quite so furious anymore. “It goes without saying I want to help you solve both your problems.”

Stiles smiles appreciatively and nods for good measure. He still feels miserable and ashamed and sorry for himself, but that doesn’t mean he needs to broadcast it. He doesn’t think he deserves the pack’s sympathy or pity for this.

“Besides,” Scott chimes in, “once you can control your spark, it means you won’t constantly be expending energy as your spark tries to turn against you or whatever. You’ll get it under control, and then you can focus fully on your memories.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Stiles says somewhat uncertainly. At the very least, it would definitely be less stressful searching for a way to lift the block on his memories if he’s not simultaneously worrying his spark will appear to him as a dangerous person trying to kill him.

“And you’re not alone in this,” Lydia reminds him. “Like your dad said, we’ll all help you. We’ll research memory spells, while you keep working on your spark. Right, guys?” she says, addressing the pack.

Stiles watches the pack, carefully gauging their reactions, but not a single person verbally or physically implies helping Stiles would be a burden in any way. In fact, it’s abundantly clear they’re all ready to do everything within their power to help, and Stiles isn’t sure if he should feel surprised or saddened that he’s entirely unprepared for how moved he is by the display of solidarity.

“I, too, will continue to reach out to my contacts,” Deaton assures as everyone returns to eating dinner and chatting amongst themselves. “If I come across anything promising, I will pass it along.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Stiles murmurs, mostly to himself at this point. Granted, it’s not exactly a solid plan since there’s no guarantee Deaton and the pack will find anything to help Stiles regain access to his memories. But it’s better than having to fight this battle alone, and much better than what he feels he deserves.

~ ~ ~

After dinner, Deaton injects Stiles with the orange serum. It’s beginning to look like he’s got track marks at the crook of his arm.

“Three days,” Deaton says ominously. It takes everything in Stiles not to roll his eyes at the unintentional melodrama. It’s probably best not to mock or provoke the only person who knows how to make the magic serum that prevents his brain from melting out of his ears, though.

Once the sun sets, people either start turning in for the night in their respective bedrooms or leaving to return to their own homes. The sheriff is last to go, hugging Stiles tightly and promising he’ll return the next day. Eventually, only Stiles and Derek are left sitting around the kitchen table. Stiles thinks Derek is still there merely because he’s waiting for Stiles to turn in, but Stiles doesn’t plan to go anywhere until they discuss _the_ _incident_.

But before he can bring it up, Derek breaks the silence between them and grumbles, “You should probably get some rest. You’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

Stiles scoffs in disbelief. “Seriously?” He pauses to see if Derek will take the bait. When he doesn’t, Stiles adds incredulously, “That’s what you’re going with?”

Derek tilts his head and frowns a little, as though he’s confounded by this reaction. “You need your energy tomorrow so that you can continue figuring out your spark,” he reasons, infuriatingly calm. “That sort of training always takes a lot out of you.”

Stiles stands up so abruptly he nearly knocks over his chair. “Unbelievable!” he shouts indignantly. “I know I messed up today, and I know you’re still mad at me, but are we just not going to talk about it?”

Derek heaves a weary sigh, finally dropping the charade. “What do you want me to say?” he asks, sounding conflicted. “We don’t have time to hash this out. You have more important things to worry about right now.”

“What do you mean we don’t have time?” Stiles retorts. “We were in a relationship, apparently.” He flings his arms out to his sides and raises his eyebrows. “How hard is that to admit? Takes only five seconds, max.”

Derek gapes at him like that isn’t what he was expecting to come out of Stiles’ mouth. “You can’t tell me it would be sane to spring that on someone with no memories,” he snaps back.

He has a point, but it’s not enough to get Stiles to back down. “Were you ever going to tell me?” he asks. “Or were you planning on waiting for Deaton’s serum to run out, and then letting me return to blissful ignorance without ever knowing about us?”

Derek sighs and runs a hand through his own hair, making it stick up in messy spikes. But other than that, he doesn’t offer any kind of verbal response.

“Wow. _Wow,_ ” Stiles says in disbelief. “I realize supernatural amnesia has been a barrel of laughs so far, but you honestly prefer it over a confrontation?”

Derek’s lips part for a second, and he appears as though he wants to join the conversation; however, he seems to reel in the impulse because he shuts his mouth and remains quiet.

“Why are you being this way?” Stiles asks in frustration. “We were close enough that we shared a bed at one time, yet you’re acting as though that’s something that shouldn’t concern me?” Stiles can feel himself spiraling as he fights with his emotions. He’s confused and scared and lost in his own life, and apparently, yet another epic meltdown is how he’s coping with it. “Derek, don’t you even care?” he asks plaintively.

“You were in the room today!” Derek yells, the words exploding out of him without warning, surprising them both. “You were in _our_ room,” he continues, much quieter, and suddenly so fragile. “Can you honestly accuse me of not caring when I’ve spent the past two years living in what might as well be a museum exhibit preserving what we used to have?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Stiles says in dismay. “You’ve been ignoring me all day, and you wouldn’t even look at me all through dinner. I know it’s not just because I went through your stuff. I mean, I admit I shouldn’t have; it was a shitty thing to do, and I’m sorry. But so was hiding everything from me. What we used to have,” he says, quoting Derek’s words, “was my relationship and my life, too.”

“Again, you really think it would’ve been wise to spring a surprise relationship on you?” Derek looks at him expectantly because the answer to that question should be obvious.

“I don’t know. Maybe?” Stiles says instead. When Derek raises his eyebrows and seems skeptical, Stiles adds, “I believed you’re a freaking _werewolf_ with absolutely no hesitation. I think you could’ve found literally any way to tell me about us, and I would’ve been receptive.”

“You had a panic attack five seconds after meeting your dad,” Derek reminds him. “I wasn’t going to—”

“So what?” Stiles yells, interrupting him. “I have those sometimes. That doesn’t mean you deal with it by not telling me stuff I need to know!” Derek grimaces guiltily, and it’s clear he thinks Stiles is right about that. But he needs to get back to the point. This isn’t about panic attacks, or about how to deal with debilitating factors in a person’s life. He takes a deep breath and starts again. “I’m sorry I’m making this into such a _thing_. It’s just that I literally have no recollection of who I used to be. And here you are, the person who probably knew me best if all the tooth-rottingly sweet pictures on my phone are any testament to how _happy_ we looked as a couple. God, that’s still so weird to say.” A laugh bubbles up from Stiles, entirely unbidden. “Did you know I’ve been crushing on you all this time? I dunno—can you _smell_ it on me or whatever?”

Derek glances away, which is confirmation enough.

“Geez! This is so messed up!” Stiles exclaims as he gets worked up again. “But y’know what’s really eating at me?” He doesn’t wait to see if Derek will answer the question. “This whole time, you’ve just carried on like we were basic acquaintances or something. I’m, like, totally _floundering_ over here, and you _let me_!” Stiles stops himself then, breathing hard, and demands, “Aren’t you even going to say anything?”

Stiles almost thinks Derek’s going to leave him hanging until very softly, Derek says, “You wiped your own memories _on purpose_ , Stiles.”

“Yes, yes, we know that already,” Stiles says impatiently. But then he thinks for a moment why Derek would say something he already knows to be true. “Oh, holy God.” Stiles’ gaze flicks up at Derek, taken aback by a sudden realization. “We were _together_ when I wiped my memories.”

“Yes!” Derek says, now on his feet, too.

Understanding dawns on Stiles all at once. “And you didn’t realize until Deaton’s tracking spell that I—” he cuts himself off, unable to speak the words.

“That you forgot on purpose,” Derek says, finishing the thought.

Stiles’ mind is reeling now that he knows what’s going on in Derek’s head. “We still don’t know why I wiped my memories,” he points out. “There’s no way to know that I spelled myself so I’d forget about _you_.”

“Oh, come on,” Derek says, clearly not buying that explanation. “You didn’t come to me before you placed the block on your memories. You didn’t leave a note or a text. You didn’t even say goodbye to your dad,” Derek says cynically.

“We don’t know why I did it,” Stiles insists desperately. “Don’t punish me for something I can’t even remember doing. I must’ve had a reason, okay?” he shouts, angry tears springing to his eyes. “Dammit,” Stiles curses as wipes them away with his fists. “I need to get out of here.”

Derek reaches out for him the moment he hears the jingling of car keys. “Stiles—”

“Please don’t,” Stiles says, pulling away. “I just need to be alone right now.”

“Then be alone in your room. Or any room. Be alone in the house,” Derek says, words suddenly tumbling out of his mouth with ease. “Don’t leave.”

Stiles breathes out a shaky sigh, still sniffling a little. “I need to think. And I need to not be here right now.”

“Don’t be rash,” Derek pleads. He sounds calm, but he’s tense all over. “It’s late out. You don’t need to leave.”

Stiles narrows his eyes and bites out bitterly, “You don’t get to act like the protective boyfriend only when you feel like it.”

“Fine. Then _I’ll_ leave,” Derek decides, already pulling on his leather jacket.

“What?” Stiles looks at him, perplexed. “How is that any different from me leaving?”

“You’re human,” Derek states simply.

That touches a nerve. “Last I checked, plenty of people are human,” Stiles snaps. “Don’t tell me I’m human like it’s some sort of handicap.”

Derek curses aloud. “I didn’t mean it that way!”

But Stiles is already marching upstairs to collect his things from the guest room. On his way, he hears several doors shut quickly. He and Derek had been rather loud, so it’s no surprise the rest of the pack had overheard everything.

“Stiles, wait!” Derek calls after him.

Stiles slings his backpack over one shoulder and grips his duffel bag in the hand not holding his car keys. “Derek, I just really need some space right now, and I need to think.”

“I’ll give you space,” Derek promises resolutely. “Just don’t leave right now. You don’t know what’s out there.”

“Whatever boogieman’s out there today was surely out there the past two years I’ve spent being human on my own,” Stiles says. He doesn’t miss the guilty expression that flashes across Derek’s face. “I’ll be fine,” he states firmly, then shoulders his way past Derek and heads back downstairs.

“Stiles, stop!” Derek yells, still frantically chasing after him.

Stiles does stop just shy of the front door. He takes a deep breath and says, “I’m not leaving because I’m upset. I mean, I _am_ upset,” he amends, “but that isn’t why I’m leaving. I need a clear mind to focus on all this spark crap, and that’s not going to happen in this house. I just don’t fit here. Not right now, anyway.”

“I’ll keep my distance, okay?” Derek bargains despairingly. But that isn’t even the issue. In fact, it might be part of the reason this stupid argument even started. “Just please don’t go,” he implores, eyes beseeching. “Stay.”

With Derek looking at him the way he is, Stiles wants to stay. He _wants to_ want to stay. But he gazes sadly into Derek’s eyes and says, “I can’t. I want to, but I can’t.”

“What?” Derek asks, bewildered by this answer. Stiles can’t blame him. “Help me understand, Stiles. What do you want?”

They stand there for a moment, both staring at one another. Stiles is red-faced and still trying to hold his tears at bay, and Derek looks both resigned and upset.

“I want to go home,” Stiles croaks, shoulders slumping in defeat.

The simple phrase breaks Derek’s heart. Stiles can see it written in the expression on his face, and he wishes it wasn’t his fault. “Sorry,” he whispers. And with that, he opens the door and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many of you have been commenting about Stiles finally figuring out he and Derek are an item, so there you are! ;) And [here](https://www.instagram.com/p/9fDhOavj8w/?taken-by=supjoya) is the cod dish Stiles helps Scott make for dinner.


	11. Chapter 11

Stiles drives away from the pack house as quickly as he’s able and heads to the bakery because he needs to prepare for the next day’s morning rush…and also because he literally has no where else to go. Without the pack and everything associated with them, Stiles has nothing else but his little shop. It’s not fun arriving at that conclusion, and he doesn’t know how he’s been content with this lonely existence for so long.

But as grateful as he is to have met the pack, Stiles wonders if they’re better off for having him back in their lives. He’s disrupted Boyd, Isaac, and definitely Erica’s schedules more than he can ever know; the entire pack is spending every spare moment trying to find a counter spell to something Stiles cursed himself with _on purpose_ ; Dr. Deaton is working around his veterinarian duties to reach out to supernatural contacts; and, worst of all, Stiles stole a son from the sheriff and a boyfriend from Derek.

Truly, Derek is the one who put everything into perspective for him, even though Stiles is fairly certain Derek didn’t mean to do any such thing. The mere thought that Stiles broke Derek’s heart is bad enough. But the fact that he didn’t even leave some kind of message behind seems unnecessarily cruel. And it was coming to that understanding that made Stiles want to leave the pack house so abruptly. He doesn’t merely want to stay there; he wants to _belong_. And that can never happen if he’s the one hurting the pack.

The memory spell didn’t only change Stiles’ life; the entire pack was affected as well, and that’s on him.

But then again, Stiles simply can’t picture himself taking the drastic measure of blocking his own memories without considering all the consequences. It’s in his nature to overthink and prepare, so he must’ve had a good reason.

 _Why_ would he wipe the pack from his memories? What was his motive?

Stiles deliberates while he works, and by the time he finishes with morning prep and moves on to the tedious process of baking jumbo cupcakes for the beach party custom order, he can only think of two possible reasons for purposely blocking his own memories. Since the most obvious consequence of the memory spell is that Stiles hasn’t been able to be near the pack for the past two years without experiencing debilitating pain, he concludes he cast the spell either because he wanted to get away from the pack, or because he wanted the pack to stay away from him.

If it’s the first option, that means Stiles experienced something so awful or displeasing with the pack that he removed all his memories of them to guarantee he wouldn’t need to deal with them anymore. But other than harboring the secret about his relationship with Derek, they haven’t exactly seemed like an intensely shifty group. Well, Peter’s shifty, but everyone else seems okay. Granted, Stiles has only been around them a couple days at this point, but he gets a good vibe from these people. He doesn’t sense anything concerning about them.

The second option is much worse: Something horrible about _Stiles_ made him want to ensure the pack wouldn’t be able to stay near him. It takes effort to let his mind splinter off into possible ways he could have found himself so entirely deplorable that he refused to let his friends and family help him.

But then he takes time to consider that two years ago, he was involved with the supernatural world. He’s a spark and has certain magical abilities that apparently work outside the laws of matter, which is quite a lot of power for anyone to wield responsibly. And, evidently, there is a darkness surrounding his heart, and as the spark manifestation of Jennifer had stated, Stiles’ spark is turning dark.

He doesn’t _feel_ dark, though—not that Stiles knows what that’s supposed to feel like. But was the darkness thing an issue two years prior? Because if he feared he was going dark all that time ago, wouldn’t the process be complete by now? That is, unless Stiles found a way to stop it with the memory spell. But why would forgetting about everyone he loves stop him from going dark?

And now he’s back at square one because he clearly still has no idea what’s happening. All his theorizing seems like educated hunches at best and hysterical overthinking at worst, neither of which is entirely reliable. But at least working in his kitchen has helped him to calm down somewhat. Stiles doesn’t exactly feel relaxed, but he does feel more like himself, ironically enough.

He’s suddenly yanked from his thoughts when he hears the familiar jingle of the bells above the front door. Stiles sounds utterly hopeful when he calls out the first name on his lips. “Derek?”

“You wish!” Erica’s voice replies moments before she pushes open the swinging door separating the kitchen from the shop front. “Geez. Have you been awake all night?” she asks, eying his appearance critically.

Stiles glances at the clock on the wall to discover it’s 6:03 A.M. “I guess,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. This isn’t the first time he’s pulled an all-nighter without noticing.

Erica plants her hands on her hips and glares at him. “You realize humans require this thing called sleep, right?”

“Do you even know how much time I’ve spent unconscious the past day?” Stiles snarks. “Trust me. I’m good to go on sleep.”

Erica doesn’t look pleased to hear that. “Passing out as a result of exhaustion doesn’t count,” she admonishes him. “You need real, proper sleep.”

Stiles scoffs and fires back, “You’re one to talk. The sun isn’t even up yet, and you showed up to work on your day off.”

Even as she shoulders her way into Stiles’ space and takes over loading a piping bag with blue frosting, Erica says, “I’m not here to work. I’m here to talk some sense into you.”

“If this is about my fight with Derek,” Stiles says as he dumps some graham crackers into a food processor to turn them into crumbles resembling sand, “then I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh? Then when would you prefer to talk about it?” Erica asks, tone challenging. “In two days, when you might forget you ever knew us all over again?”

Stiles sighs dejectedly. “I know you’re only trying to help, but you can’t possibly understand what I’m going through,” he says as he starts carefully wiggling gummy Life Savers around the waists of Teddy Graham cookies.

“Hey. That’s not fair. You can’t hold the memory spell stuff against me,” Erica says, moving to help him with the Teddy Grahams and Life Savers. “I’m doing my best to wrap my head around that. We all are,” she assures. “But what do you think I wouldn’t understand about Derek?”

“It’s not that I think you wouldn’t understand,” Stiles says. “It’s just a lot of little things, all over the place. Like, I wish someone had said something about Derek and me being a _thing_. I’m completely mortified the whole pack could probably smell me crushing on him.”

“Oh, the horror. You have a crush on your own boyfriend,” Erica deadpans.

“I didn’t know he was my boyfriend,” Stiles reminds her. “I just,” he falters for a moment as he gathers his thoughts. “I feel like a ghost in my own life,” Stiles confesses. “Like, here I am in the bakery,” he says, gesturing around them, “and I know how I fit here. I have a life here, however pathetic it may be. But then there’s the pack house, where I’ve got friends, a boyfriend, my dad— _family_.” He feels himself choking up a bit and has to pause to pull himself together again. It’s just that he's been alone for so long. “Even though there’s plenty of evidence that I was a part of the pack,” he continues, “I simply don’t see myself there.”

“What are you saying?” Erica asks slowly. “Do you not want to be a part of the pack?”

“No!” Stiles yells, and Erica’s face falls. “I mean no to your question,” he hastily amends. “I want to be in the pack, but it feels like I’m not.” He furrows his brow, then adds, “I feel like the spare button that comes with some dress shirts. Y’know, the one that’s not really a part of the garment, and you usually just tear it off the shirt, and you end up forgetting where you put it?”

Erica shakes her head, unable to comprehend his conflicting thoughts. “What are you talking about? You’re pack,” she insists firmly, like no other option could possibly make sense.

“Then do the past two years in the bakery even mean anything if my _real_ life is with the pack?” Stiles asks.

“What? That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Your ‘real life,” Erica says, hooking her fingers into air quotes, “is all of that. Quit trying to parse out what’s real and what’s not. The pack, the bakery, werewolves, the supernatural world, your spark, and the crazy, hot mess that is this memory spell _all_ make up your real life.”

“Be that as it may, I wish you guys didn’t need to deal with all the problems I’ve suddenly brought with me. Wiping my own memories affected the whole pack as much as it affected me. I didn’t run it past any of you—not even Derek or my dad,” Stiles explains. “What kind of person does something like that to people he cares about?”

“Judging by your tone, you think it’s someone awful,” Erica responds patiently.

“I highly doubt you could prove me wrong on this,” Stiles says. “Just in the past two days, my out-of-control spark has manifested itself into two of your worst enemies. You guys shouldn’t need to relive that trauma because of me.”

“Never had the pleasure of going up against Jennifer,” Erica says wryly, “but yeah. Kali’s a bad bitch.” She shudders as she appears to remember something dark. “But you didn’t sic them on us,” Erica says once she recomposes herself. “And it probably won’t even happen again because you’ve got a pretty good handle on your spark now.”

“You’re placing entirely too much confidence in my skills,” Stiles assures her. “I can use my spark to knock something over for you if you’d like. But that’s about it.”

“Don’t go off on a tangent where you put yourself down,” Erica scolds him. “You’re above that.”

“Okay, then. Back to the point,” Stiles says. “Before I barged back into your lives a couple days ago, you can’t honestly tell me you were dealing with surprise supernatural disasters, like my spark turning into deadly, undead enemies who want us dead.”

Erica raises an eyebrow and smirks. “ _Please_. This town is literally a _beacon_ for all things supernatural. Just last week, we were dealing with rabid nixies in the preserve. The week before that, there was this insane thing with a kayeri. I know you don’t know what those are,” she says upon spotting the question on Stiles’ face, “but what I’m saying is we’re kinda used to supernatural craziness just falling into our laps. It’s just a part of living in Beacon Hills.”

It’s mildly terrifying how resigned Erica sounds about this reality, but she’s making Stiles’ point for him. “The nixies and kayeri—whatever they are—were threats to the pack, right?”

“More or less,” Erica answers.

“Just like me,” Stiles says. “I’m a threat to the pack, too.”

“Huh?” Erica pulls a face. “You’re going to need to lay that out for me.”

Stiles takes a deep breath and lets his next words quickly rush out of his mouth. “I think I used a memory spell to forget about the pack because of something I did.” He pauses for a few seconds, then adds, “Something bad.”

That’s precisely when Erica accidentally rips one of the gummy Life Savers in the midst of getting it snug around a Teddy Graham’s waist. She eats the ruined Life Saver and grabs another to try to get it around the Teddy Graham. “You’re being ridiculous,” she says finally. “For starters, you don’t actually know why you cast that spell or block or whatever. And I’m pretty sure if you did something bad enough that you felt the need to wipe your memories, we’d at least know about whatever bad thing you did. We’re basically like supernatural hall monitors for the town.”

Stiles thinks about that for a minute. “What if I used a spell to make all of you forget about whatever bad thing I did?”

“Then what would have been the point of wiping your own memories after that?” Erica fires back.

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” Stiles mumbles to himself.

Before he gets too lost in his thoughts, Erica says, “Y’know, even if it turns out you did something really awful, we wouldn’t shun you or anything. I mean, we keep Peter around, don’t we? And he’s the worst!”

That startles a weak laugh out of Stiles. “There is that,” he concedes. After all, Peter’s purportedly killed people, and the pack talks about it like it’s an odd quirk in his personality instead of a felony. “I’d like to think I’m better than Peter, though,” Stiles says. “I still don’t know why I cast the memory spell, but I want to believe I had a good reason for it.”

“I trust you did, too,” Erica says. “But quit inventing new things to worry about,” she admonishes. “Don’t stress about the _why_ of it when you literally have nothing substantial to go on. When we figure out this memory spell, I’m sure we’ll figure out what you were thinking when you cast it. Until then, try to relax, will you?”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll try,” Stiles relents. It’s much easier said than done, of course. It’s in his nature to stress, but he silently resolves to make an effort not to waste his mental faculties on hypotheticals.

“Is that what the fight with Derek was about? You were worried you were bad for the pack or something?” Erica asks. Then her expression brightens as she adds, “Did I just fix everything?”

“Not really,” Stiles replies apologetically. “In retrospect, most of the ‘fight’ was just me throwing a fit and provoking a response from Derek,” he says sheepishly. “Derek probably thinks I stormed off because of him.” He replays the argument in his head and adds, “Although, that’s not entirely inaccurate either.”

“Oh, you beautiful idiots,” Erica says, heaving a long-suffering sigh. “What did Derek do? You need me to give him some heaven,” she brings up one curled fist, “and hell?” Her other fist joins the first, and she looks like she’s ready to spar.

“No, I didn’t mean it that way,” Stiles says, using his hands to push down Erica’s. “It’s just that Derek’s been pining for whatever we used to be for two years. That is nuts! And who knows how much longer he’d have held onto the memory of our relationship if my spark hadn’t gone bonkers like it did to bring me back into the fold?”

“I know you can’t remember what you had with him, but the answer is forever. I know Derek,” Erica says with sincerity. “He would wait an eternity for you. He kinda did, actually.”

Stiles curses under his breath. “Don’t tell me stuff like that!”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Erica asks, eyebrows raised. “It’s the truth.”

“It’s unhealthy is what it is,” Stiles says. “And if I really am bad for the pack, that kind of devotion makes Derek vulnerable. And I don’t want to hurt him anymore than I already have.”

“You literally haven’t seen Derek for two years,” Erica says. “Besides your absence from his life, how have you hurt him?”

“You weren’t at the clinic when Deaton told us I’m the one who placed the block on my memories,” Stiles says. “Derek looked absolutely crushed, and even though he reigned that in pretty quick, I realize now the first thing he thought was that I did it because I took his feelings for granted or something.”

“Like you chose to wipe your memories, all because you didn’t actually love him back,” Erica surmises. After a beat, she adds, “Yep. Sounds like Derek.”

Stiles is taken aback by the word “love,” mostly because he’s still somewhat in denial that a catch like Derek Hale not only dated him but has been carrying a torch for him the past two years. He has to remind himself he doesn’t know the specifics of their relationship; _love_ very well could be an accurate description of the feelings they shared. The mere thought makes Stiles’ chest ache with longing.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Erica says, watching him warily.

“I dunno.” Stiles shifts uncomfortably. “It’s really wiggin’ me out that the guy I was ogling and crushing on a week ago is apparently in _love_ with me.”

Erica rolls her eyes. “That’s cuz you can’t remember that you love him back, doofus.”

Stiles feels himself blush. “That’s not the point,” he protests, even though it kind of is.

“You’re just trying to be contrary now for the sake of being contrary,” Erica argues. “But listen,” she says, tone turning serious. “You need to reconcile with Derek.”

“I know that,” Stiles begins to say, but Erica shakes her head and keeps going.

“On the off chance you can’t figure out this spell and vanish from our lives again, you can’t let him go on thinking it was all because he’s incapable of being loved,” Erica says. “You’re my friend, and I’ll always look out for you, but Derek is my friend too, and he’s not very good with self-care. He—” Erica trails off for a second, like she’s trying to decide her next words carefully. “He already has problems thinking he doesn’t deserve good things,” she says finally. “Don’t make it worse.”

Stiles swallows down the lump that’s suddenly formed in his throat. When they get down to it, why does it always seem as though the pack would be better off without him? He doesn’t know what Derek’s self-esteem problems are about, but that’s not his business. Stiles just doesn’t want to be responsible for adding to his burden, whatever it may be.

“I really hope I’m not bad,” Stiles whispers aloud, voice tinged with worry.

“You’re not,” Erica states confidently.

“I wouldn’t remember if I was, though,” Stiles counters.

“But I remember you,” Erica reminds him. “I know you, and so does the pack. You can be an asshole sometimes, and really, really annoying, but you’re not _bad_. Not in an unredeemable, dark sort of way. You have a good heart.”

“That’s surrounded by darkness, apparently,” Stiles grouses.

“Scott has the same darkness around his heart,” Erica points out. “I wasn’t there for it, but he did that ritual thing with you as well. Does he seem dark or bad to you?”

“No,” Stiles admits, fidgeting a little. “But he’s like the lovechild of puppies and sunshine, and he’s an alpha to boot. Doesn’t that make him stronger or something?”

“You’re strong, too,” Erica says, nodding in earnest when he looks at her dubiously. “You’re a human who runs with a pack of werewolves. Not only are you able to keep up with us, you stand out. You’re the linchpin of our pack, Stiles. If there was anything weak about you, you wouldn’t be able to manage any of that.”

Erica’s unwavering faith in him brings Stiles a small measure of comfort. As far as he can remember with his swiss cheese memories, Erica’s the person he knows best, and he trusts implicitly she isn’t simply humoring him. Her words are genuine, and he’s grateful to have her in his corner.

They work in amicable silence for some time as they assemble the cupcakes. Half of each one is covered with sand made from crushed graham crackers, while the other half features ocean waves piped on with blue frosting. Goldfish crackers are placed in the “water,” while colorful drink umbrellas are poked into the “sand.” Beneath each umbrella sits a Teddy Graham wearing a gummy Life Saver. Within a couple hours, they finish decorating all the cupcakes and step back to admire the final results.

“These are way too adorable to eat,” Erica declares while she snacks on leftover Teddy Grahams.

“I have to admit the cupcakes turned out even better than I imagined,” Stiles says proudly. “Thanks for helping. You really didn’t have to. I promise I’ll pay you back for all this overtime the past few days.”

Erica waves him off. “Family does for family; pack does for pack. I just hope I’ve talked some sense into you?”

Stiles nods. “I’ll talk to Derek,” he promises.

“In person,” Erica advises. “Not over the phone.”

“Obviously,” Stiles agrees. He’s not entirely sure what he’ll say yet, but Erica’s right. Just in case they can’t reverse the block on Stiles’ memories and he forgets everyone again, it’s not right to let Derek continue pining the way he has, regardless of Stiles’ motive for the memory spell.

“Cool,” Erica says, clearly pleased with how things have turned out. “Now, I’m going to open up the shop and man the register. You stay back here or up in the loft and study the grimoire some more.” She pauses, frowns slightly as she runs her eyes down his body, then adds, “Or take a nap. Whatever you need to do more.”

“What? Erica, you’re not even on duty today,” Stiles argues. “And you’ve already done more than your fair share to help. You don’t need to stay, especially if it’s only because you want me to take a nap. Go home. I’ve got this,” he says, trying to sound as reassuring as possible.

Erica sees right through him. “I very much doubt that,” she snaps flatly. “Running the shop is a full-time operation. How are you going to focus on the grimoire at the same time, too?”

“Multitasking and Adderall?” Stiles says, cringing sheepishly.

With a huff, Erica crosses her arms over her chest and considers him for a moment. “This is too important,” she declares. “I’ll stay for at least half the day. That way, you can study hard and without bakery-related interruptions until lunch. And no abusing the Adderall either,” she warns as an afterthought. “Deal?”

That is too much to expect from her, considering she’s not even supposed to be in today. But Stiles needs to master his spark. He needs to do everything he can on his end, so that he can be as useful as possible while Deaton and the pack help him figure out how to retrieve his memories. The chance to peruse the grimoire undisturbed will certainly facilitate his efforts, and if yesterday is anything to go by, focus is paramount to his success.

“If you really don’t mind, then I’ll take that deal,” Stiles says gratefully. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Erica winks at him and says, “Lucky for us the universe decided not to let you find out.” She leaves Stiles smiling as she saunters into the shop front.

~ ~ ~

Stiles settles at the kitchen table in his loft, with the grimoire open to his right, and an unlit candle to his left. Thus far, all he knows how to do is reach out for his spark. He can grab hold of it but can’t exactly direct it. It’s a little bit like picking up a baseball, but not understanding how to use his arm, hand, and fingers to pitch it, toss it up and down to catch it, or even drop it somewhere other than where he picked it up.

According to journal entries from Halina, the first owner of the grimoire, the best way to overcome such a hurdle is to start by trying to focus his spark energy on accomplishing a small task, such as lighting a candle. From there, controlling the spark becomes a little more intuitive, which seems to make sense. After all, once someone determines how to throw a baseball, it doesn’t take much to learn how to catch it.

Not that baseball and his spark have anything in common.

Stiles reads and rereads Halina’s advice: _Meditate. Picture the candle in your mind’s eye, paying particular attention to the wick and all its qualities. Imagine lighting it—not with a flame, but with energy drawn from the depths of your soul. Imagine it. Believe it. Know it. And it shall come to pass._

Halina doesn’t write about her own results using this technique, but Stiles has to assume it worked if she bothered to take note of it. So, he turns his attention on the candle, examines it carefully, then closes his eyes to meditate.

It’s much easier to center his mind today than it was yesterday. Stiles thinks it might be because he’s coming to terms with the state of his life right now and has resolved not to be constantly half-panicked about what’s going on. He’s at ease with precisely how messed up everything is, and there’s a strange sort of calm that accompanies that acceptance.

Stiles patiently tunes out the quiet mumbling of voices and clinking of dishes from downstairs, the sounds of the bells over the front door tinkling every time someone enters or leaves the shop, and random traffic noises coming from outside. He clears his thoughts until all he’s left envisioning is the candle. It’s a muted army green color, and it smells like pinecones, apples, spices, and crisp autumn air. It smells like the forest, and Stiles briefly wonders if his subconscious mind was drawn to it for a reason. It’s the only candle he owns.

Eyes still closed and with the candle firmly in mind, Stiles hones in on the wick; it’s slightly curved to the left and burned completely black. Then, he concentrates on his spark so that he can use it to light the candle. But it’s challenging to conjure up an image of it in his mind because he’s not actually sure where his spark resides, so to speak. It’s like asking a person to _actually_ reach into his or her soul. What does that mean? How would that look? It’s not like people keep their souls in little pouches or something, and the same holds true for his spark. He’s not quite sure where to find it in the vast, infinite expanse of his mind.

That doesn’t discourage him, though; he never fooled himself into thinking this would be easy. So, he takes a deep breath and sinks deeper into his meditative state, straining to detect the source of his spark. He thinks he senses energy building somewhere inside of him, but he doesn’t know where. It feels like it’s everywhere—running through his veins, thrumming in his bones, swirling around his—

Suddenly, Stiles hears a loud shattering sound and a faint yelp from downstairs that he recognizes as Erica’s voice. He opens his eyes immediately to complete darkness in his loft; the candle remains unlit.

“Stiles!” Erica shouts from downstairs. “I need you down here! _Now_!”

He curses under his breath as he stumbles through the dark loft and makes his way downstairs, where the bakery is also without light. “Erica?” he calls out when he arrives in the kitchen.

Erica’s face suddenly appears in the darkness, illuminated by the flashlight on her phone. “Oh. That’s smart,” Stiles murmurs as he fumbles with his own phone until its flashlight is also turned on. “What happened?”

Erica pokes her head out into the shop front and grins as soon as she spots customers. “Just one moment!” she sings in a saccharine voice. “Everything is fine. We’ll get the power back on in a second!” Then she rounds on Stiles, and the moment the swinging door closes behind her, she hisses, “You busted all the light bulbs!”

“ _Me_?” Stiles squawks indignantly. Erica puts a finger to her lips and shushes him, so he continues in a whisper. “I wasn’t even moving. Literally, I was sitting completely still, meditating,” he insists. “I was upstairs the whole time.”

Erica doesn’t buy that excuse. “How else can you explain every single light bulb in this building spontaneously exploding all at once?”

Stiles mouths wordlessly for a moment as he grapples with possible explanations, but he’s unable to come up with anything reasonable. “They seriously exploded?” he asks in disbelief. “All of them?”

“Even the oven light,” Erica replies. “Good thing we weren’t actually baking anything in there when it happened.”

“I was trying to light a candle,” Stiles offers defensively. “With my spark,” he clarifies. “Someone wrote in the grimoire that it’d be a good way to try focusing the spark for the first time. But apparently not?”

Erica sighs wearily, and Stiles feels some relief when she no longer looks quite so irritated with the situation. “Okay. Help me get some lights on again,” she says, “and then maybe go study out back instead?”

Stiles grimaces guiltily but nods all the same.

Since they’re not actually experiencing a power outage, Stiles and Erica simply need to replace the light bulbs in most lamps; however, they don’t have the means to get the large, overhead lights working again on their own. Erica calls for an electrician to come down later that afternoon, but until then, they move a few lamps from Stiles’ loft into the kitchen to provide some extra light. Luckily, the large windows in the shop front allow sufficient daylight to filter inside, so they don’t need any lamps out there.

It takes about an hour to get everything sorted again, which still leaves Stiles with plenty of time to mess around with his spark before Erica leaves; so, he grabs the grimoire and candle and heads out back. Claudia’s Bakery is right along the tree line that separates the town from the preserve, so he walks as far from the bakery as he can get without actually setting foot in the forest and takes a seat under a tree.

“Okay, Halina,” Stiles grumbles as he opens up the grimoire once more. “What went wrong?” He silently rereads Halina’s entry, as well as her tips, but it all seems rather straight-forward—that is, if meditating and flailing around in one’s mind can be considered _straight-forward_.

He flips through the next few pages in Halina’s section of the grimoire, hoping she noted something that might help him better understand what he needs to do. She makes a lot of lists, which Stiles likes since he can peruse them quickly, and she probably lived near the woods or somewhere else natural since most of her lists are of plants, herbs, and natural elements possessing specific qualities. Stiles is particularly fascinated with the additions to her lists in different handwritings and inks, and he even recognizes his own chicken scratch notes regarding mistletoe and variations of wolfsbane near the bottom of a couple pages.

Scattered between the lists, Halina often includes short personal entries detailing things she’s done with her spark, but most of it is either too advanced for Stiles to follow or seems obsolete when he has access to modern medicines and technologies. In one of the longer entries that appears near the middle of Halina’s pages, Stiles discovers Halina’s spark energy had been green, apparently. It’s an interesting tidbit, and he doesn’t make much of it, until he gets to the end of the entry:

> _Today has been enlightening, to say the least.  
>  _
> 
> _The order of druids from the North Woods called on me to help a boy around my age who’d taken ill. It was not until I arrived that I was informed he had water in his lungs from being swept away by the river’s current the day previous. I have not had much success working with water in the past. I suspect it is because my spark is anchored to the earth and its ancient powers, though that remains yet another unanswered question regarding my powers._
> 
> _I communicated my shortcomings to the boy’s parents, but they could not comprehend why that should matter when I possess otherworldly powers. They begged me to help their son, even as I told them I did not believe I could._
> 
> _All this time, I’d thought the boy to be asleep, but he caught my hand in his and stared up at me with eyes as blue as the river filling his lungs. He feebly squeezed my fingers with his and used what little breath he could spare to utter, “I believe you can.” Weak as he was, he gazed at me so intently that I believed him. I believed I could make him well again._
> 
> _I rubbed my palms together to summon my spark, and I heard the boy’s parents gasp as a familiar glowing green aura engulfed both my hands. I pressed them to the boy’s chest, closed my eyes, and willed my spark to banish the water from his lungs. I cannot recall how long I stayed that way and only became aware of my surroundings once again when the boy suddenly began to cough violently as water was forcefully expelled from his body._
> 
> _The druids helped to pull me out of the way, and in my dazed state, it must have been minutes before I glanced down at my hands to discover my spark had changed color from green to blue like the river, blue like the sky, blue like the boy’s eyes. This has never happened before, and I do not know what to make of it. It is times like these that have me wish I knew of another who also possessed abilities like mine._
> 
> _After conducting their examination, the druids declared that though the boy’s lungs are still weak, he would live. As he settled back into his cot, he said somewhat smugly to me, “I knew you could do it. Isn’t that what I said?” It is not what he’d said, but I did not correct him since he surely lacked the breath to exchange verbal sallies with me. Before nodding off, the boy told me his name is Nikolas, and that I should call him Niko because that’s what his friends call him. He also told me I should accompany him to the Harvest Moon Festival the following week if it isn’t too far out of my way._
> 
> _His interest is clear, though it catches me by surprise. People are typically intrigued by my spark, but never in this way. I wonder if it is simply because he is grateful I saved his life. The wise thing to do would be to ignore his invitation in order to spare both our feelings in the long run. But as I collected my things to take my leave, the Archdruid crouched beside me to say, “You can have anything you want if you are willing to give up the belief that you can't.”_
> 
> _She can be so unnerving sometimes! And yet…I believe I will see Niko at the Harvest Moon Festival next week._

Stiles has a broad grin on his face by the time he finishes reading the entry. “I see you, Halina. Get it, girl!” he crows excitedly, even though her Harvest Moon Festival has long since passed.

What had caught his attention, of course, is that Halina’s spark had changed colors. Stiles wonders if his own spark has changed colors before and resolves to ask the pack or Deaton about it later. Perhaps the color of spark energy designates the kind of magic it might most effectively conduct. Since Stiles’ spark energy is blue, does that connect him to the water? That might explain why he can’t light the candle. Then again, blue could also symbolize the sky or air or wind.

Niko’s eyes were blue, too. Just like Halina’s spark. Just like Derek’s werewolf eyes. And just like Stiles’ spark.

Stiles anxiously drums his fingers on one of his knees and decides that’s just coincidence. Plenty of people have blue eyes. And besides, Derek’s eyes are actually green. So, yeah. Total coincidence. Malarkey, even! Coincidental malarkey.

With that settled, Stiles refocuses his efforts, wracking his brain for any instance where he could have made a mistake with lighting the candle. He skims through page after page of Halina’s writing until he notices the date scrawled neatly in the upper-right corner of each new entry. He flips back through the grimoire to reach the entry with Halina’s instructions for lighting the candle; the date reads _13 June 1860_.

Stiles spares a moment to reverently run his hand over the paper and ink, marveling at just how much history is preserved within the grimoire. Then he fishes his phone out of his pocket and points the browser to Google. “When was the light bulb invented?” he says aloud as he taps out the question into his phone. Stiles executes the search, and Google reports that Thomas Edison filed a patent for the light bulb in 1879.

Understanding dawns on him. Clearly, Halina didn’t warn about the possibility of exploding light bulbs because they didn’t exist when she was writing about her spark. In retrospect, Stiles thinks it makes sense that he accidentally shattered all the light bulbs in his loft and bakery in his efforts to light the candle. Since he associates light bulbs instead of fire with light, his spark must have tried siphoning “light” from power outlets, resulting in an overload of electricity simultaneously blowing out all light bulbs in his vicinity.

Stiles wonders how many more times he can repeat that blunder before either going broke from the cost of replacing light bulbs, arousing suspicion from the electric company, or turning into a Marvel super villain who appears to feed off electricity. Perhaps it isn’t wise to continue experimenting with his spark around civilization, or anything else he might inadvertently blow up.

And that’s when Peter’s earlier words to him come to mind: “ _Ask yourself why you keep finding yourself in the woods._ ”

Stiles swivels around and stares into the forest, lined so deeply with trees that it’s impossible to guess how long it might take to walk all the way through it. But learning to use his spark in there definitely wouldn’t include the risk of modern disruptions such as electrical interference.

With his mind made up, Stiles texts Erica to let her know he’s going for a walk in the preserve. In doing so, he’s unable to ignore some of the final texts she sent him two years ago, as they appear directly above the one he’s just sent. Mostly, the messages alternate between annoyance and concern over being unable to reach him, and the very last one states that Stiles needs to check in because Derek is losing his mind. Evidently, Stiles was out of touch long enough to worry Erica—and Derek—back when he first lost his memories. He files away that information for later and feels like a jerk as he pointedly ignores the rest of his unread texts. He wants to read them all, but only when he has the time to devote his full attention to the messages.

Once he pockets his phone, Stiles gathers up the grimoire and candle, then wanders into the woods. He doesn’t know how much distance he needs to put between himself and the bakery to be safe, but he decides simply to keep walking until he can no longer see the shop through the trees. As it is, he’s working on a hunch.

Since meeting Derek and rediscovering his spark, this is the first time Stiles has been in the preserve while not running for his life; as such, he takes the opportunity to appreciate the beauty of his surroundings. At first glance, the forest seems indescribably quiet and peaceful—a solace found only within the depths of nature and nowhere else. But upon further scrutiny, there is an unmistakable wildness that echoes from the tiniest bug to the tallest tree. Stiles feels small and insignificant, and a little like he doesn’t belong here either, like he shouldn’t be trailing in his foreign scents and kicking up dirt with his clumsy footsteps. But at the same time, he feels uniquely connected to the space, now that he’s taking his time to appreciate it. It’s almost as though the forest has not only let him in, but has swallowed him up whole, like he’s simply a part of it now. Like he _is_ the forest now—

“Stiles, right?”

“Gah!” Stiles yelps and accidentally drops the candle in alarm. On its way down, it hits a rock, the outer glass splinters, and both the glass and candle crack apart in two jagged pieces when the candle lands on the ground. He whirls around to complain loudly, but then he gasps in surprise when he sees who it is. “Kate!”

An amused smirk snakes across her face; she’s clearly pleased Stiles remembers her.

“Er, I mean, yeah. I’m Stiles,” he stammers out as he tries to decide how he can play this. Stiles knows who Kate really is now. He knows she killed Derek’s family, that she’s a dangerous enemy to the pack, and that she can’t possibly be good news. The question, however, is if Kate is aware that Stiles knows any of this. Does she even know that Stiles lost his memories? Or that he’s been reunited with the pack?

“What can I do for you?” Stiles decides to say, foregoing the fact that it’s odd for either of them to be randomly taking an afternoon stroll through the woods.

“More like what _I_ can do for _you_ ,” Kate says, taking a step closer to him. Stiles can’t help it; he anxiously takes a step back in return, and Kate grins predatorily when she notices his reaction. Frankly, with everything he knows about her, Kate frightens him, and he doesn’t want to be alone in the middle of the woods with her. “Don’t look so nervous,” Kate says in an easy, almost sultry tone. She winks and adds teasingly, “Unless you have something to be nervous about?”

Stiles chuckles uneasily because it’s all he can think to do. “Look,” he says as politely as he’s able, “if this is about the guy you were looking for last week, I haven’t seen him around.”

Kate raises her eyebrows and examines him like he’s a bug on the bottom of her shoe. “Derek,” she supplies, following a pause that lasts too long.

“Right. Derek,” Stiles says, giving her a tight-lipped grin. “Haven’t seen him around,” he repeats as he attempts to edge past Kate, hoping he can simply walk away from the impending confrontation. “Maybe check with the local cops,” he suggests. “Anyway, see you around—!”

Kate’s arm shoots out abruptly, and she snatches Stiles’ shoulder in her hand, squeezing it painfully as she roughly pushes him back to where he’d been standing.

“Okay, _ow_ ,” Stiles grouses as he rubs at his sore shoulder. “That’s gonna leave a bruise.”

“Y’know, Stiles,” Kate says, her voice the slightest bit strained in annoyance. “I’m not inclined to believe a word you say about Derek, considering you smell more like wet dog than you do of powdered sugar.”

Stiles swallows thickly because he’s beginning to piece together precisely how screwed he is. He understands with mounting dread there’s absolutely no way Kate doesn’t know that Stiles has reconnected with Derek. For starters, if she still thought he was a clueless baker, why would she have ambushed him in the woods?

“Oh, damn,” he curses softly under his breath.

“Yeah,” Kate says, snickering at his plight. “Derek’s scent is all over you, hun. The entire pack’s scent is all over you, actually.” She sniffs at him and pretends to gag. “Revolting.”

Stiles panics and does the only thing that comes to mind: he lies some more. “Pack? What pack? I don’t know of any pack,” he protests frantically. “Wait, do you mean pack, as in pack of cigarettes? Cuz I don’t smoke, lady. Smoking causes cancer, and it can—”

Stiles cuts himself off because Kate’s simply shaking her head at him and feigning disappointment. And then, because evidently this situation isn’t horrifying enough already, her eyes flash an eerie supernatural green. “Can’t lie to me, Stiles,” Kate says, tongue moving strangely around her teeth for some reason. “I’ve had some upgrades since you last saw me.” Then she grins, and Stiles notices her teeth are now sharp, pointed fangs that are almost too large for her mouth, which explains the sudden slurring of her voice. Clearly, she’s not human, and most likely, she’s able hear the uptick in his heartbeat whenever he lies, just as Derek and the rest of the pack can.

“Oh, come on!” Stiles yells incredulously—mostly at the universe. “Is _everyone_ a werewolf now?”

Kate rolls her glowing eyes at his antics. “Not a werewolf,” she says. “But that’s not what’s important here.”

Stiles bristles uneasily because she’s right. “I’m not giving up Derek,” he says resolutely, sounding braver than he feels. “If you want him, you’ll have to go through me first.”

Kate considers him for a moment, then throws her head back and howls with laughter, placing her dangerous fangs on full display. Stiles realizes with dismay that she’s laughing at the mere thought that he could possibly be anything close to a formidable opponent against her. Not that she’s wrong, but still. It’s disheartening, to say the least. “You’re even cuter than I remember, now that you’ve filled out all the way,” she remarks as she regains control of herself. “I can see why they keep you around.”

And that honestly grosses Stiles out because it really is the sort of thing a psychopath says before brutally murdering someone and using his skin to create a lampshade. He needs to get out of here _now_.

But he’s far too deep in the woods to shout and count on Erica or anyone else hearing him. There’s no way he can stealthily text or call anyone either. And his spark continues to be absolutely useless. Maybe he could use the broken pieces of the candle as a weapon if he needs to? Of course, he could always run. In spite of the heels on her boots, Stiles has no doubt Kate wouldn’t have any trouble giving chase, but it does give him a 50/50 chance of getting away from her. _Maybe_.

If only he had a better handle on his spark. He’s tired of feeling so horribly defenseless all the time.

“Calm down before your heart gives out,” Kate snaps as her eyes and teeth go back to normal. “I’m not here to harm you.”

Stiles scoffs at her. “Somehow, I find that difficult to believe.”

“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead,” she points out matter-of-factly.

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” Stiles retorts.

Kate shrugs unapologetically.

“If you’re not here to do _whatever_ to me,” Stiles says, unwilling to talk about Kate killing him, “then what do you want?”

Kate eyes him up and down, regarding him carefully. Stiles squirms uncomfortably and feels a bit like he’s being measured for a coffin. “A little bird tells me you’re a spark,” Kate says finally, pausing to gauge his reaction.

Stiles’ mouth falls open slightly, and he tightens his grip on the grimoire. “Does this bird have a name?” he asks, doing his best to appear more or less unaffected.

“So, it’s true. Excellent,” Kate says, not answering his question. “In that case, I have a proposition for you. I need your spark,” she says, and Stiles blanches in shock. “I’ve done my research,” she assures him, “and I know your spark would die if I tried to extract it from you.”

“Um, there’s also the fact that _I_ would die,” Stiles points out, affronted.

Kate rolls her eyes. “Anyway, since we’ve established that you and your spark are a package deal, I’d like to propose you leave your pack and team up with me.”

A hysterical giggle bubbles up out of Stiles’ gut, completely unbidden. “What?! How is that even a proposition?” he exclaims, bemused. “No, I’m not doing that!”

“You’re being unreasonable,” Kate says reprovingly. “Honestly think this through. Because how well do you actually know that pack of dogs? What reason do you have to stay with them?”

Stiles can’t believe she’s actually trying to sell him on this. “It’s not that simple. I’m not just gonna leave my pack—certainly not to _team up_ with the likes of you,” he says mockingly.

Kate’s lips curl in a displeased snarl, but she tamps down on her temper before she does anything more than that. “There are two sides to every story, Stiles. I’m sure Derek and his pack has fabricated all kinds of things about my family, but look past that,” she urges. “Really think about what I’m offering you.”

Stiles fails to see how she’s offered him anything at all, but he doesn’t point that out. “You killed Derek’s entire family,” he says instead, slowly and deliberately since she clearly doesn’t understand there isn’t an excuse for that. “You burned them alive in their home. There are police reports and everything. That’s not a fabrication.”

Kate huffs then purses her lips in frustration. “And that’s why you’re having such an issue with entertaining my proposition?”

“Well, yes. _That_ , but also because your entire ‘proposition,’” he says, using his fingers to hook air quotes around the word, “is basically you asking if you can turn me into your very own spark slave. Which, I guess, is weirdly polite that you’d bother to ask? But, uh, hell to the no.”

Kate lets out a sharp exhale. “Do you know why Derek’s eyes are blue?” she asks all of the sudden.

“Uh, what?” Stiles says, trying to keep up.

“Derek’s eyes are blue because he’s a killer,” Kate says, answering her own question.

Stiles shakes his head, refusing to believe her. But then again, Peter’s eyes are blue, and he’s definitely a killer—he admits it proudly. But what if blue eyes are just a Hale family trait?

“Ask him,” Kate says, sensing his uncertainty. “Ask him why his eyes are blue. Ask him how many people he’s _murdered_. Then ask him to tell you what it’s like to bury his claws in—”

“No!” Stiles exclaims, shuffling backwards like he needs to distance himself physically from her treacherous words. “I don’t know what your endgame is, but you’re nuts if you think I’d ever trust a word you have to say.” He reaches behind him and shoves the grimoire into the waistband of his jeans for safekeeping. Then, he clenches his hands tightly into fists, and it only takes a second for him to lock onto the part of his mind he’s equated with his spark. When he uncurls his fingers and lowers his arms, a crackling mass of blue spark energy has appeared in each of his palms.

Kate’s eyes widen in astonishment, but she reels it in quickly. “Nice parlor trick,” she says dismissively. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

“It should,” Stiles says unflinchingly. It’s not exactly a lie, which is what he’s counting on. Even though Stiles still doesn’t know how to control his spark, he knows it’s a viable weapon, and so does Kate. Hopefully, the threat will be enough to convince her to back off.

“Simply because you insist on blinding yourself to the truth doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” Kate says, sneering at him. Stiles finds it hilarious that Kate, of all people, would be waxing poetic about the truth, but he chooses not to poke the bear for once in his life. “You think your sniveling pack of dogs is so precious and pure,” she bites out bitterly. “Go ask Derek about his eyes. Ask him about _Paige_. _Boyd. Erica_.”

Stiles gasps; it’s a sharp intake of breath that seems to spear right through his heart. He doesn’t know who Paige is, but Boyd? Erica? Were those _his_ Boyd and Erica?

Kate grins menacingly, fangs in full view again. Her skin takes on a bluish hue, and what seems to resemble leopard spots suddenly appear around her eyes and across her forehead and cheeks. Stiles realizes with a start he’s witnessing her shift. She looks somewhat like a werewolf, but with less facial hair and more body paint or something. Her eyes flash green at him again, and Stiles braces himself for a fight he’s definitely not prepared for.

But Kate doesn’t attack. She merely says, “Next time we meet, remember I asked nicely.” And with that grim promise, she leaps high onto a tree in a single bound and disappears amongst the branches of the forest within seconds.

Stiles remains standing where he is, muscles locked, tense and anxious with the spark still crackling in his hands as he anticipates Kate surprising him again. However, after a few minutes of sensing nothing but the usual noises and movements of the forest, Stiles permits himself to relax. He rolls his neck from side to side, allows the tension to drain from his shoulders, then shakes out his hands to dispel the spark. Most of the blue energy rains onto the ground and vanishes into the forest floor, but some of it lands on the broken pieces of the candle.

Stiles doesn’t think anything of it at first, until the candle seems to meld back together, right before his eyes. Within seconds, it is whole and undamaged and sits on the forest floor, displaying no indication it had ever been broken at all.

Stiles gapes in total disbelief.

And as though that wasn’t impressive enough, an instant later, the wick spontaneously catches flame.

Stiles flops down on his haunches and stares in amazement at the unassuming flame dancing over a small puddle of melted wax. He gazes at his hands, fingers trembling from adrenaline and shock, and then his eyes flick over to the candle and flame once again. “What the hell?” he wonders aloud. “I finally did it, and I wasn’t even trying to do anything!”

He’s still a little shaky, but he doesn’t want to spend anymore time alone in the preserve. He texts Erica to say he’s heading back and also to warn her that Kate Argent is nearby, and he makes certain the grimoire is still tucked away safely in his waistband. Carefully, he collects the candle in one hand and cups the other around the flame to ensure it doesn’t blow out. Then he slowly starts his walk back to the bakery, wondering the entire time if things will ever begin to make sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beach teddy jumbo cupcakes: [One](http://sweets-and-treats.net/gallery/cupcakes03.jpg), [two](http://sweets-and-treats.net/gallery/cupcakes04.jpg), [three](http://sweets-and-treats.net/gallery/cupcakes05.jpg), [four](http://sweets-and-treats.net/gallery/cupcakes06.jpg), [five](http://sweets-and-treats.net/gallery/cupcakes07.jpg)! These are some of my favorite cupcakes I've ever made. They were for an event at my university, and I was commissioned to make 100 of these, and I remember my favorite thing about them is I used Kool-Aid powder to color and flavor the blue frosting! :P


	12. Chapter 12

By the time Stiles returns to the bakery, the candle has long since been snuffed out by an unexpected gust of wind. He’d been somewhat dismayed when it happened, until he reminded himself the flame, itself, isn’t necessarily remarkable. What’s important is the manner in which he’d lit the candle. Sure, he didn’t intentionally use his spark to light it, but somehow, the knowledge that he’s already done it once makes him feel confident he might be able to do it again.

There aren’t any customers in the shop when Stiles opens the front door, which means Erica doesn’t cause a scene when she grabs his shirt and yanks him all the way inside.

“Erica!” Stiles huffs indignantly as he pulls himself free from her grasp and straightens out his shirt. Erica ignores him in favor of slamming the door shut, locking it, and peering out the window with worry. “Whoa. What’s wrong?”

“What’s _wrong_?” Erica seethes, rounding on him angrily. She runs her eyes over him, then digs her phone out of her pocket. “ _Kate Argent is_ _nearby_ ,” she reads aloud in a lofty voice.

It’s the text Stiles had sent her on his way back from the preserve. “Yeah,” he says a little uncertainly as he pulls the grimoire out from his waistband and sets it and the candle near the cash register at the front counter. “Oh, guess what? I managed to light the candle—”

“Kate Argent is _nearby_ ,” Erica repeats, placing firm emphasis on the last word and sparing little thought for anything else Stiles might want to discuss.

“Well, I mean, not anymore,” Stiles assures her, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

Erica scoffs and pockets her phone. “And you didn’t think a little more clarification in your text would be useful?” she asks, her tone indicating there’s only one correct answer to that question. “Was she nearby because she was on your heels? Did you see her without her seeing you? Do I need to batten down the hatches? I don’t even know what that means,” she mutters to herself, then carries on with her tirade. “Is she on her way to the shop? Do we need to clear out the perfectly innocent and _un_ -supernatural humans in the shop?” she says shrilly, flinging an arm out to showcase the completely empty bakery. “What am I supposed to do with ‘ _nearby_ ’?!”

Stiles grimaces guiltily because _oops_. Now it certainly makes more sense why the shop is totally deserted during the lunch hour. He briefly wonders why Erica didn’t just text him back to ask for clarification, but then he flushes noticeably when he takes a peek at his phone and notices all of her follow-up texts and calls.

“I honestly didn’t mean to make you worry, and I missed all your texts and calls because my phone was on silent,” Stiles says as sincerely as he’s able. “It’s just that a lot happened, and I haven’t really processed what went down yet. It was too much to explain in a text, but I still wanted to shoot you a quick message and give you a heads up. I guess I shouldn’t have been so brief.”

Erica looks confused while he speaks, and then her eyes widen with panic. “Shit. _Kate Argent_ was nearby,” she says all over again. “You ran into Kate! Are you okay? Did she do anything to you?” Erica’s suddenly in his personal space, sniffing at him and prodding anxiously at his neck and arms and chest. “God, Stiles. Talk about burying the lead!”

“Stop that. I’m fine,” Stiles insists, swatting her hands away. “I don’t think she was going to hurt me,” he says, and when it looks as though Erica’s ready to protest, Stiles adds, “but she knows about my spark.”

“Crap. I don’t know if she knew about it before,” Erica murmurs to herself as she runs a hand through her wavy blonde hair. She glances outside again, then turns back and says, “Okay. Sit tight until Derek gets here. Then, tell us everything so you only have to do it once. And oh,” she adds as an afterthought, “good job with your spark and the candle.”

“No, no, no!” Stiles exclaims. Before he can help it, he blurts out, “I can’t see Derek right now. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him about our fight from last night yet!”

“Well, I suggest you get over it because he’s already on his way here,” Erica says. “I texted everyone before you got back.”

“What? But why?” Stiles whines, not caring that he sounds like a petulant child.

“What else did you expect me to do?” Erica demands, exasperated. “What if Kate had followed you back here? She’s a hunter _and_ a werejaguar, and I can’t go up against that combination alone. We’d have needed backup from the pack.”

“A werejaguar?” Stiles asks skeptically, eyebrows raised. “I was gonna go with castaway from Pandora, but okay.”

Erica tries to maintain her scowl, but it breaks ever so slightly into a tiny smile. “Shut up,” she says, rolling her eyes.

With an imminent attack no longer a concern, Stiles unlocks the bakery doors while Erica texts everyone back to clarify there isn’t an immediate threat from Kate, meaning members of the pack otherwise occupied with work, school, and other obligations don’t need to drop everything to storm Claudia’s Bakery. In the end, only Derek, Scott, and Lydia show up.

“What happened? Are you hurt?” Derek growls immediately upon setting foot in the bakery. He takes Stiles’ face into his hands before either of them knows what’s happening.

Stiles can’t help blushing at the proximity. “I’m fine,” he insists, not used to so many people fussing over him. “She didn’t do anything. It was just a bunch of posturing and bad banter, really.”

Derek purses his lips in a tight frown and does a cursory inspection of Stiles’ limbs. Then, he gently wraps a hand around the side of Stiles’ neck, and Stiles is vaguely surprised to find himself slowly leaning into the touch. Erica remarks with a touch of amusement in her voice, “I see how it is. Only Derek gets to scratch and sniff.”

Derek and Stiles instantly pull apart, both appearing visibly self-conscious.

“Quit giving them a hard time,” Scott says as he walks up to Stiles and runs his own hand across the nape of Stiles’ neck. “It’s a scent-marking technique,” he explains, obviously for Stiles’ benefit.

Erica scoffs at him and says in a challenging tone, “That wasn’t _just_ scent-marking. If Kira were here to blow in your ear right now, would you tell her she was _just_ breathing?”

A goofy grin stretches across Scott’s face, and he’s so lost in whatever he’s imagining that he doesn’t answer the question.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Lydia says loudly, drawing everyone’s attention to where she’s seated at a table near the window. “Stiles, if Kate supposedly didn’t do anything to you in the preserve, then what did she want? She must’ve confronted you for a reason.”

“I’m not completely sure about her true motive,” Stiles replies, grateful the topic of conversation is no longer a group analysis of how and why Derek’s touching him. As he talks, he ties on an apron and situates himself behind the front counter to make dough for sugar cookies because he refuses to get behind on bakery business while dealing with supernatural shenanigans. “Our conversation was sort of all over the place,” he explains, “but the main takeaway is she wants me to leave the pack and team up with her because she wants to use my spark for something. I don’t know for what,” he adds before anyone can ask. “She didn’t say.”

Scott looks alarmed. “She shouldn’t know about your spark.” His eyes dart to Derek’s, seeking confirmation. “Right?”

Derek nods, expression grim. “That means she isn’t working alone.”

“Slow down, guys. How many people know about my spark? Is it a secret or something?” Stiles asks, brow furrowed. “I mean, I probably wasn’t shouting about it from the rooftops, but why is it so concerning that Kate knows?”

“Because she wasn’t around when you properly discovered your spark,” Scott says. “Last we saw her, she was running for her life in Mexico.”

“Of course, that was years ago, back when we were all juniors in high school,” Lydia points out. Stiles idly wonders what the pack could’ve been doing all together in Mexico back then. “Speaking of which, has Chris checked in yet?” Lydia inquires. While Scott taps at his phone, Lydia turns back to Stiles and clarifies, “Chris Argent is Kate’s brother. He’s been chasing Kate around the world.”

Scott glances up from his phone and says, “Don’t make it sound like that’s all he does.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “It’s the relevant part to this conversation,” she argues. “Stiles doesn’t need the man’s entire life history.”

“Are you sure we can trust this guy?” Stiles interjects, finding it difficult to believe it would be easy for anyone to go against a family member like this. “‘Trust’ might not even be the right word. Are you sure we can rely on him?” Stiles amends. “Kate’s his sister, after all. They’re family.”

Lydia shakes her head because apparently, Stiles has it all wrong. “Chris is on our side. He’s good,” she answers with certainty. Stiles turns apprehensively to Derek, who immediately nods his head in affirmation. “He knows his sister’s a monster,” Lydia continues. “I won’t deny it isn’t hard for him to fight against her, but we can trust him to do the right thing. Don’t worry.”

Stiles silently resolves he’ll try not to.

“Chris e-mailed back,” Scott says, reading off his phone. “He’s in France again, meaning his old phone number is disconnected, so he sent us a new one for texts and stuff. I’ll forward it to everyone in a sec. Anyway, he says Kate’s supposed to be at—” Scott squints at his phone and frowns. “I dunno. I can’t pronounce it, but she’s at some place in South America that’s sort of like Eichen House, apparently.”

“ _South America_?” Erica echoes in surprise.

“Except that she’s not there,” Derek snaps.

“Duh,” Scott says, unaffected by Derek’s gruffness. “I just e-mailed him back to let him know as much.”

Derek digs his own phone out of his pocket, peers at Scott’s phone, and saves Chris’ new number. “I’m calling him,” Derek announces. “I don’t have time to wait until Chris gets around to checking Scott’s e-mail. This is too urgent.”

“Dude, he’s in France. It’s, like, the middle of the night over there, isn’t it?” Scott asks. Even if it is, from the determined expression set on Derek’s face, Stiles doubts it would keep him from calling.

“Actually, it’s just past dinnertime over there,” Lydia says, glancing up from her wristwatch.

Derek gives Scott a slightly smug, withering glare, then turns to Stiles and asks, “Can I duck into your loft to make this call?” Stiles nods, and Derek wanders off.

Everyone seems content to sit and wait for Derek to return, but this gives Stiles the perfect opportunity to discuss the one part of his meeting with Kate that’s been giving him some pause. He’s just about finished with the sugar cookie dough, which needs to be chilled for about half an hour, so he places the dough in the refrigerator, then comes around the front counter. “Guys?” Stiles calls to them softly. He glances over at the door that leads to the staircase that opens into his loft, and when he sees it’s still closed, he turns back and says, “There was one other thing.”

Everyone seems to sense his unease and almost instinctively draws nearer. “What is it?” Scott asks worriedly.

“When Kate suggested I leave the pack to team up with her, I turned her down, obviously,” Stiles says, speaking quickly and keeping his voice low so that Derek doesn’t overhear. “And to convince me I ought to reconsider, she told me to ask Derek why his eyes are blue.”

Scott bristles and looks somewhat troubled. “That’s a complicated story,” he says reluctantly. “And it’s Derek’s to tell.”

Stiles makes a displeased noise in the back of his throat. “There’s a reason I’m telling you guys about it and not him!”

There’s a moment where everyone exchanges uncomfortable glances. “Blue eyes mean he’s killed an innocent person,” Lydia supplies, wasting no more time.

Stiles feels his own eyes go round like saucers.

“Dude, I told you it was complicated,” Scott says consolingly while glaring back at Lydia, who merely shrugs her shoulders unapologetically.

“No, it’s not that,” Stiles says. “Kate told me Derek’s a killer _._ Well, I think the word she used was _murderer—_ ”

“And who does she think she is? The Pope?” Erica retorts. Stiles looks at her with apprehension instead of the amusement she’d been going for. “What?” she asks warily.

“The last thing Kate told me to do was to ask Derek about Paige, Boyd, and…you. Unless there’s another Boyd and Erica the pack knows,” Stiles trails off because based on the shocked expressions on everyone’s faces, he can tell that isn’t the case. “What was Kate talking about?”

Erica appears to be rendered speechless. Meanwhile, Lydia murmurs to herself, “How could she know about _that_? She came back after—” Lydia cuts herself off and shakes her head, perplexed.

“Kate must be working with someone,” Scott says conclusively, pursing his lips and nodding to himself. “Derek was right.”

Stiles is so confused and wishes someone would give him a straight answer. “Would you guys quit speaking like the freaking sphinx? What’s up with Erica, Boyd, and whoever Paige is? Why would Kate think it would convince me to leave the pack?”

“Because I’m the reason they all died.”

“Derek!” Stiles yelps, startled by his sudden reentry into the shop front. Then, what Derek’s just said sinks in. “Wait. What?”

Derek sighs heavily and looks burdened with the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Paige, Erica, Boyd,” Derek lists off quietly. “They all died, and it’s my fault they did.”

Erica curses aloud. “Derek, no,” she admonishes in a tone that suggests this isn’t the first time she’s had to assuage his guilt. “Boyd and I chose to leave of our own volition. If that somehow makes you responsible for my death, then that means my choice to leave makes me culpable in some way, too.” She raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest. “So, are you gonna stand there and blame me for my own death?”

“No, of course not,” Derek says immediately because there’s really only one answer to a question like that. “Erica, you know I would never—”

“Exactly,” Erica says, speaking right over him. “End of conversation.”

Derek still looks troubled, but he doesn’t say anything else.

“Um, I’m a little lost over here,” Stiles says, breaking the tense silence, “but Erica looks perfectly alive to me, so I’m not sure what you’re going on about.” Stiles squints his eyes and gazes suspiciously at Erica. “Unless you’re a ghost? Are ghosts a thing now, too?”

“Not a ghost,” Erica assures him. Without warning, her nose suddenly transforms into a snout, her forehead becomes more pronounced, and facial hair spontaneously sprouts along the sides of her face. “Just a werewolf,” she says around a mouthful of sharp fangs.

Stiles narrows his eyes further and says, “Are you a ghost werewolf, then?”

“Oh, my God. They’re called _shades_ , not ghosts!” Lydia yells, like she can’t keep the information to herself a moment longer. She gives her head a quick shake and blinks hard. “They hate it when people call them ghosts.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, drawing out the word, unsure of what to make of Lydia’s outburst. His eyes dart back to Erica, and he asks, “Are you a _shade_ werewolf, then?”

Erica snorts in amusement and effortlessly shifts back to her human form. “Regular werewolf. Although, yeah,” she says casually. “I was dead for a while.”

Stiles blanches and wants to doubt she’s telling the truth. “I’m sorry— _what_?!” he splutters in disbelief. “You can’t just drop that kind of knowledge like it’s a freaking footnote! How do you expect me to believe you used to be _dead_?” he shrieks incredulously. “Is this a common occurrence or something?”

“I dunno. I’ve only done it the one time. Would not recommend,” Erica says, shuddering slightly at the memory. “Murder? Not fun.”

Stiles gapes in horror. “You were murdered?” He takes in the beautiful, jovial girl before him—his only real friend for the past two years—and wants to be sick at the thought of someone hurting a single hair on her head.

“Yeah. Kali killed me,” Erica confesses quietly.

“Holy God,” Stiles murmurs, his mind reeling with questions. Before he can think any better of it, he blurts out, “How long were you dead for?” Then he cringes and stammers out an apology. “Crap. Ignore me. That was really insensitive.”

“It’s okay,” Erica says, then tilts her head and thinks for a moment. “I dunno. I think I was gone for a few years?” She shrugs her shoulders, seemingly unconcerned with the specifics.

“A few years?” Stiles balks. He’d thought perhaps Erica’s death lasted only a minute or two, like when a person flatlines before being resuscitated. Coming back to life after being dead for _years_ is impossible—or so he’d thought.

“I know, it’s crazy,” Erica says, unfazed. “I came back about a month or two before you lost your memories. Same with Boyd, even though we didn’t die at the same time,” she notes. “Apparently, we just reappeared one day, with no idea we’d been dead at all until the pack found us and helped piece things together. Deaton thoroughly checked us over, determined we weren’t shades or whatever, and that was that,” she says easily, like actual resurrection is nothing to bat an eye at.

“There’s more to the story because people don’t spontaneously come back to life, of course,” Lydia says. “As far as I know, only a spell can bring someone back from the dead. The Nemeton can as well, but really, anything related to that ancient tree stump is just one extended spell if you think about it.”

“Sorry—what’s the Nemeton?” Stiles asks, trying his best to keep up.

“Ancient tree stump somewhere in the middle of the preserve, sometimes uses unsavory forms of magic to extend a person’s life,” Lydia rattles off quickly. “Avoid it.”

“He can’t really _avoid it_ ,” Scott points out. “It kinda moves around and appears at random.”

“What?” Lydia makes a face. “That’s preposterous.”

“Why else can no one ever find it in the same place?” Scott challenges.

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Right,” he mutters dubiously.

“Anyway, unless there’s some other method to resurrect a dead person,” Lydia goes on, “it means there’s an unknown spellcaster wandering around Beacon Hills that we don’t know about.”

“At least they’re on our side, though, right?” Scott says brightly. “Of all the people this person could’ve brought back, I’m glad it was Erica and Boyd.” He beams at Erica, and she returns his smile with one of her own.

“Yes, that’s fortunate,” Lydia agrees. “But what troubles me is there’s always a price to pay for a resurrection spell or anything like it. Manipulating life and death is dark magic,” she says ominously.

“Well, it’s been two years,” Erica says. “I haven’t developed a sudden craving for brains or anything either, so I say we file this in the ‘win’ column and quit worrying about it.”

“I think I need to sit down,” Stiles mumbles faintly as he sinks into the nearest chair and thinks things over. “Hang on,” he says after a moment. “What about this Paige person? Is she alive again, too?” He’s met several new people in the past couple days, but he’s fairly certain no one in the pack is named Paige. “Who is she?”

Scott shrugs his shoulders, and when he glances over to Lydia and Erica, they’re equally clueless as well.

“Paige is the reason my eyes are blue,” Derek murmurs softly, somehow becoming impossibly more distressed than before. “An alpha bit her, but her body rejected the bite,” he says, sounding stilted and distant. “She was hurting. She was _dying_. So I—” he clenches his fists at his sides and squeezes his eyes shut in shame.

“You ended her pain,” Lydia says gently, and Derek’s head moves in a jerky nod, though he continues to look down, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. It’s a heartbreaking sight to bear.

“I don’t know why Kate wanted to dredge this stuff up,” Stiles says hesitantly, doing his best to move the conversation along and hoping also to distract Derek from whatever he’s thinking about. “I don’t know what she hoped to accomplish, but she failed. Kate wanted me to view Derek as a monster, and I don’t.” Derek blinks up at him with such open surprise that it startles Stiles a little. He wishes Derek thought more highly of himself.

“The Paige situation must have been awful, but I don’t think there was any malicious intent behind it,” Stiles continues, carefully parsing through his thoughts. “And Boyd and Erica are here, alive and well, and it doesn’t seem as though they hold any grudges against you. So, I’m not exactly sure why any of that would convince me to leave the pack.”

“Maybe she thought it’d be enough to freak you out,” Erica guesses. “You have to admit all that sounds sort of horrific out of context. Hell,” she adds with a wry grin, “it’s horrific _in_ context, too.”

“It might’ve freaked me out this time last week, when Kate first followed Derek here,” Stiles admits, “but not now that I, y’know,” he stammers, feeling a blush creeping up his face. “I know you guys now. You’re my pack. It’s just…it’s like this feeling, y’know?” He’s not entirely sure what he’s trying to communicate, but he hopes the pack will understand.

“That’s the pack bond you’re feeling, and it connects us all,” Scott says, looking at Stiles with something akin to pride. “Werewolves are more aware of it than humans in a pack, alphas feel it more than their betas, and humans mated to werewolves in the pack might feel it a bit more as well, especially with regards to their mates.” He isn’t subtle at all when his eyes dart between Stiles and Derek, who’s leaning against the wall and brooding in silence. “It’s sort of complicated, but then it’s also not?” Scott says, trying his best to put his thoughts into words. “Basically, it’s a bond that keeps us safe and makes the pack stronger and more cohesive as a unit.”

“It’s affected very much by a person’s emotional or mental state,” Lydia adds helpfully, expounding on Scott’s explanation. “So, for instance, we all felt it a little when Kate startled you in the preserve today.”

“We didn’t feel it physically,” Erica interjects. “It was more like a ‘ _my Spidey senses are tingling_ ’ moment.”

“Right,” Lydia says. “A sudden feeling of unease.” Erica nods, pleased with this phrasing. “But we have no way to distinguish in the moment if the panic you felt was due to Kate ambushing you or because you stubbed your toe or something.”

Stiles considers how many times a day he trips, drops things, or is otherwise surprised by unexpected events. “That sounds exhausting,” he says, feeling overwhelmed merely thinking about always being hyper aware of other people’s emotional states. He’s barely got a handle on his own.

“You get used to it,” Scott says with an easy shrug of his shoulders. “It becomes second nature after a while, sort of like breathing. And people really only think about breathing when something disrupts it.”

Stiles hums thoughtfully. “I don’t think I ever randomly felt someone else’s panic or whatever in the past two years,” he says after a moment. “Did the memory spell, like, boot me out of the pack?” he asks, dreading the answer for some reason.

“Definitely not,” Derek says, finally stirring from his place on the wall. Stiles exhales a sigh of relief at the news. “We were conscious of you at all times, even if the spell somehow dampened your awareness of the pack bond.”

“It’s difficult to guess at since we still know so little about the origins of your spell,” Lydia says. “I do think it was helpful that Erica was able to be near you regularly, though.” The werewolves in the room nod in agreement.

“Why’s that?” Stiles asks.

“Think of pack bonds as functioning a little like rubber bands do,” Derek says. “There’s flexibility built in that allows for stretching and distance, but always an underlying force that urges a return to the center—to the pack. But what would happen if you ignore the pull to return to the pack long enough?”

“The rubber band snaps,” Stiles answers.

“Right,” Derek says. “In other words, the pack bond could break.”

“But it didn’t break,” Stiles surmises, “because Erica being near me all the time ensured I maintained my connection to the pack by association.”

Derek nods. “Something like that.”

“Dang. You really deserve a raise,” Stiles says, gazing at Erica in awe.

“Get your memories back, and we’ll call it even,” Erica says, effectively steering their conversation back on course. “Did Kate do or say anything else?”

“Not really,” Stiles replies, thinking back to everything that had occurred in the preserve. “The main thing is she wants me to leave the pack and join her because she needs to use my spark for something. And like we’ve determined already, she probably tried to use Derek against me in hopes I’d be freaked out enough that I’d leave and simply join her by default or whatever. That obviously didn’t work.”

“Obviously,” Derek mutters to himself, eyes trained on the floor as he gathers his thoughts. “Except, Kate’s smart,” he says, glancing up at them. “If she knew Stiles was with the pack again, and if she knew telling Stiles bad things about me, specifically, was the best way to convince him to leave the pack, then she should’ve known it wouldn’t work.”

Erica narrows her eyes and frowns. “No offense, but that sounds really convoluted.”

“You don’t know her like I do,” Derek argues, and no one challenges him on it further, ostensibly because he possesses an intimate knowledge of precisely how cunning and ruthless Kate can be.

“Okay, let’s all remain wary of that possibility,” Lydia says. “I do want to figure out where she’s getting her information, though. For instance, how did Kate know about Paige? She must’ve died years ago, before Kate ever even knew Derek, right?”

“Yeah,” Derek replies, quiet and somber. “I met Kate maybe a semester after Paige’s death.”

“Also, how did she know about my trip beyond the veil?” Erica wonders aloud. “We definitely didn’t send out memos about that.”

“Actually,” Stiles says, “Kate didn’t specifically say that she knew you’d come back from the dead—only that you’d died.”

“Interesting,” Lydia remarks as her eyes light up. “Are you suggesting Kate might not know Erica and Boyd are alive?”

“I don’t know. No? Maybe?” Stiles replies uncertainly. “Why would that matter?”

“It might not. I’m not even sure how she knows they died in the first place,” Lydia admits, “because it wouldn’t have been anything to concern her at the time they died. But what’s really puzzling is we still don’t know why she bothered singling out Erica, Boyd, and Paige when she was talking to you.”

“Obviously, it’s a list of all the people who died because of me,” Derek points out glumly, casting his gaze away from everyone once more.

“Except that it’s not,” Lydia says firmly. “You also killed Peter.”

Derek blinks and glances up, stunned. “Shit,” he curses softly. “That’s right.”

Stiles throws his arms up. “Peter used to be dead, too? Honestly, you guys ought to have t-shirts made,” he snarks at Erica.

“Is it—” Scott starts, stops himself, then squares his shoulders in Derek’s direction and forges ahead. “Is it because you didn’t really regret killing Peter when you did? If Kate was trying to discredit you, do you think that’s why she didn’t mention Peter to Stiles? Because he was a monster when you killed him?”

Derek’s lips tighten in an unhappy frown. “There was a lot going on back then. You know that as well as I do, Scott. Peter needed to be put down, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t regret killing him.”

“Then if anything, that would be even more reason for Kate to tell Stiles that you killed Peter. She was trying to paint you as a monster in Stiles’ eyes,” Scott points out.

“Right. And what’s more monstrous than someone who kills their own family?” Derek asks bitterly. Scott shrugs his shoulders uneasily, and Derek’s tone softens considerably, sounding almost wistful as he says, “I remember I struggled a lot with the decision back then. Peter was my only surviving family at the time, and I really didn’t want to kill him. But in the end, well,” he breathes out a sigh, “you know what happened in the end.”

“Kate wouldn’t have seen it that way, though,” Lydia counters. “Peter’s the one who ripped her throat out, remember? She probably can’t wrap her mind around anyone feeling remorse or regret for killing him. She doesn’t have the capacity for that kind of emotion or empathy.”

Derek fidgets uncomfortably. “Maybe,” he mumbles, though it’s clear there’s a world of other thoughts behind that single word.

“Hey, did Chris pick up when you called?” Scott asks suddenly, shifting gears. “What did he say?”

The tension knotting up Derek’s shoulders eases instantly, though not nearly enough for Stiles’ liking. “He’ll be on the next flight out of France. As far as he was aware, Kate was still supposed to be locked up. He’s confirmed that she no longer is, but we already know that.”

“So she _is_ real,” Stiles says, finally allowing himself to believe it.

A customer walks in then, and they halt their discussion while Stiles boxes up half a dozen peanut butter cupcakes for her. Stiles wants to laugh a little at how everyone is trying to pretend as though they’re ordinary customers, even though they don’t have any baked goods in front of them. Once the customer pays then leaves, Scott picks up right where they left off.

“Given that we’ve sort of done it before,” Scott says, eyes briefly flicking to Lydia, “busting out of what’s basically a supernatural prison is really difficult, especially on your own, right?”

“That’s assuming she did it on her own,” Derek reminds them. “It’s likely Kate’s working with someone else.”

“Right,” Scott says. “But what I’m trying to say is busting out of a place like Eichen House is no small feat. You have to be really determined. So, maybe this means she really is after Stiles’ spark.”

“She _is_ after my spark,” Stiles reminds him. “The whole reason she ambushed me in the preserve was to tell me as much.”

“No, no. I’m suggesting she heard about your spark somehow, and that’s what convinced her to break out in the first place,” Scott clarifies.

Erica scrunches up her nose, clearly not swayed by this theory. “Or maybe she busted out of a supernatural prison because it’s a supernatural prison, and people in prison typically want to get out of prison.”

“Fine,” Scott allows, “but why return to Beacon Hills?” he asks, eyebrows rising in challenge. “She could’ve gone anywhere else in the world, where no one knows anything about her. She could’ve had a fresh start, yet she came back here. Why?”

“We should find out when she escaped,” Lydia says. “Stiles’ spark only resurfaced last week, and just barely. That’s also the first time any of us have seen Kate recently, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t here earlier, which means Stiles’ spark might not have had anything to do with her being in town. Furthermore, she had to travel here from South America. That’s a long trip, so she might’ve escaped in South America even earlier than whenever she first arrived in town. Like, _a lot_ earlier.”

“It’s not like she was walking here,” Erica says dismissively. “It’d only be a day on an airplane for her to get back to Beacon Hills.”

“Yes, but that would cost money, and she’d need a passport as well,” Lydia points out. “She probably wouldn’t have all that on hand if she escaped.”

“I think someone like Kate would find a way to work around those types of obstacles,” Scott says. “And I bet she still has ties to darker parts of the hunter community who don’t know she’s a werejaguar and might still offer her help.”

“Mm. Probably true,” Lydia concedes.

“I think this only serves to prove Kate isn’t working alone,” Derek says. “I’m sure Chris can tell us more, but regardless of when, why, and how she escaped, what we know for certain is Kate’s in Beacon Hills, and she wants Stiles’ spark. In addition to that, we know she most likely had no way of previously knowing about Stiles’ spark because she was long gone when he first discovered it,” Derek says, laying out all the facts. “All that means someone else told her about it. Once we figure out who that is, we might be able to get a few steps ahead of her.”

“We haven’t ruled out Peter yet, have we?” Erica asks. “I wasn’t here for it,” she says, which Stiles now understands to mean she’d been _dead_ , “but we know that against all reason, he’s partnered with Kate before. Who’s to say he isn’t the one talking to her about Stiles?”

“Believe me, we’ll never rule out Peter,” Lydia says scornfully. “But despite what he’s done in the past, I don’t know how Peter would have contacted Kate. She’s been locked up in South America, and he only got out of Eichen House a few months ago.”

“Good grief,” Stiles mutters under his breath. Peter’s unsettling presence within the pack almost makes sense now. He can’t even imagine what it would be like to spend time inside a supernatural prison, and then to be ejected back into pack life in the real world. “Wait, was Peter _released_ from Eichen House? Or did he break out?”

“Neither, actually. Eichen House was shut down,” Scott replies, and Stiles doesn’t know what to make of the exaggerated puppy eyes directed at him. “They had a lot of people wrongfully imprisoned there, so those people were set free. And with Eichen out of business, the more dangerous threats were moved to other Eichen-like places, while people deemed to be lower risk threats were sort of granted commutations.”

Lydia actually bursts out laughing. “Lower risk,” she repeats cynically. “Right.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “I take it this is why Peter identifies as ‘pack adjacent’?”

Derek rolls his eyes and says, “Yeah. Given his choices were between solitary confinement for the foreseeable future or rejoining the world as a member of his old pack, no one’s surprised he’s here.”

“Now that I think about it, I think Peter warrants a closer look,” Lydia says. “I know we’re always on our guards, but remember,” she glances at Derek, “he’s capable of performing spells. That, or he knows someone who can.”

“Peter can’t do magic,” Derek says with certainty. “He knows about magic and spells, but the only reason it worked when he forced us to resurrect him is because he found a way to channel magic through you.”

Lydia shudders slightly at what must be an unpleasant memory.

“I can’t help but think someone should’ve mentioned much earlier that Peter is capable of doing magic,” Erica remarks, looking utterly unimpressed.

“Yeah, but Stiles lost his memories two years ago,” Scott says. “Peter was in Eichen House by then, meaning even if he’s capable of doing magic in whatever convoluted way, he likely had nothing to do with Stiles’ memory spell.”

“Nope,” Erica says, shaking her head. “I don’t buy it. Magic can be performed from a distance, right? And even if that’s difficult to manage, let me remind you the man _resurrected himself_. So, until someone proves me wrong, I think we ought to be suspicious about literally the only other person we know who can do magic.”

“Except Deaton was fairly clear about the fact that I, alone, am responsible for placing the block on my memories,” Stiles points out.

“Maybe Peter magically forced you to do it,” Erica suggests. “Like, compulsion or whatever.”

“But why would he do that?” Scott asks, frowning in thought. “What would be his motive?”

Erica struggles to come up with a valid response and deflates in defeat when she can’t. “I have no idea.”

“Doesn’t mean Peter isn’t involved in some way,” Derek says, which makes Erica perk up somewhat. “He’s just as likely a suspect as anyone else at this point, and his knowledge about magic isn’t immaterial simply because we can’t make sense of a possible motive. I think it’s a good idea to keep him in mind as we try to figure out who’s working with Kate.”

Before Stiles can stop himself, he blurts out the thought that’s been niggling at the back of his mind. “What if it’s me?”

Scott pulls a face. “Come again?”  
  
“What if I’m the one who told Kate about my spark?” Stiles clarifies. “I mean, I can’t remember anything from two years ago. Who’s to say I’m not the one who told her about my spark?”

“You wouldn’t have had any reason to do that,” Scott says, like the mere thought is unfathomable.

“You can’t know that for sure,” Stiles argues.

“No,” Derek says adamantly, shaking his head. “Scott’s right. You wouldn’t have done that.” There isn’t an ounce of doubt in his voice, yet Stiles still can’t find it in himself to believe it without question.

He opens his mouth to protest once more, but Lydia beats him to it. “If you’re about to say something along the lines of how we _also_ never thought you’d wipe your own memories, please don’t,” she implores wearily. Stiles blinks in surprise because that’s exactly what had been on the tip of his tongue, and now he feels foolish for having been called out. “I’m not sure what you want, Stiles. What do you think we’d do to you over something you can’t even remember doing or not doing?”

Stiles mouths wordlessly for a moment but can’t come up with an answer.

“I thought so,” Lydia says, his silence speaking volumes to her. “I think it’s rather clear by now your memory wipe is due to extenuating circumstances— _not_ because you’re an awful person like you’re so hell bent on having us believe. So, quit painting yourself as the villain because none of us are buying it. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles mumbles reluctantly when Lydia presses him for some sort of response. Derek huffs and crosses his arms over his chest, clearly not pleased with this reaction. But until Stiles knows what’s really at the root of his memory loss, he and the pack will just have to agree to disagree on this point.

“So,” Erica says, drawing out the word until everyone is focused on her, “guess who did a thing with his spark today?” She grins and points finger guns at Stiles, like she’s firing the conversation at him.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I didn’t even do it on purpose,” he says, “so I’m not entirely sure it counts as progress.”

“It totally counts!” Scott insists supportively, even though he has no idea precisely what Stiles managed to do. Regardless, Stiles can’t help but smile at Scott’s utter confidence in him and his skills.

“Honestly, I think it must’ve been a result of high stress and adrenaline,” Stiles assures them all, not wanting anyone else to get their hopes up for any major developments. “But while I was in the preserve, it sorta felt like Kate didn’t actually believe I was much of a threat to her. Which is true, of course, but I didn’t want her thinking that. So, I did that thing—” Stiles drops his arms to his sides and flicks his fingers out, not actually wanting to summon his spark for fear of accidentally burning down the bakery.

Scott mimics him and exclaims, “ _Flame on_!”

Stiles laughs, and so does Erica. “Yeah. That. Anyway, I guess that display was enough to worry her because Kate immediately bolted.”

“Just like that?” Lydia asks, sounding skeptical. “You didn’t even do anything with the spark?”

“Nope. She saw it and left.” Stiles shrugs his shoulders.

Lydia purses her lips, clearly still bothered by this turn of events. “It just seems too simple.”

“Think about that later,” Erica says before Lydia can offer a new theory. “C’mon, Stiles. Finish your story.”

“Okay, so, I was in the preserve in the first place because I was trying to work on lighting a candle,” Stiles says. “Obviously, not with a match,” he clarifies hastily, “but like,” and Stiles wiggles his fingers to indicate he’s talking about his spark.

“We know. Your spark,” Erica says, impatiently waving a hand for him to get on with it. “Get to the good part.”

“Well, I wasn’t really having much luck with lighting the candle,” Stiles continues. “And add to that I totally dropped and broke the candle when Kate first approached me.”

Erica narrows her eyes and picks up the candle Stiles had set next to the cash register earlier. “This candle?” she asks dubiously as she inspects it for imperfections.

“Don’t spoil it!” Stiles grouses, at which point everyone else is suddenly interested in examining the candle. Stiles rolls his eyes and continues talking while they pass the candle amongst themselves. “Like I was saying, once I was sure Kate was gone, I had to shake out my hands to dispel the spark,” he says, moving his hands the way he had in the forest. “That resulted in my spark sorta raining down onto the ground, but I didn’t really think anything of it because I’ve dispelled my spark like that before. Next thing I know, some of my spark energy hits the broken candle, and bam! The candle not only repaired itself, but then a second later, the wick caught on fire.”

“ _Dude_ ,” Scott crows, duly impressed.

“Right?” Stiles preens despite himself. “Of course, the issue is I don’t know when I could do it again because I didn’t even mean to do it.” He reflects on Halina’s entries from the grimoire and adds, “I think _belief_ might have something to do with my spark, though. I was reading about it earlier.”

Derek and Scott nod, like this isn’t news to them. “Yeah. There’s, like, power in belief and intent and stuff,” Scott says. “I remember Dr. Deaton telling you about it back when we were in high school.” He throws his head back and laughs heartily. “Man, you thought it was such a load of crap at the time.”

“Well, I’m back to feeling that way again,” Stiles grumbles. “Because honestly, my thoughts weren’t focused at all when I dispelled my spark energy and it landed on the candle. There was no belief or doubt or anything else involved. My mind was totally blank, and that’s the one time my spark actually did anything mildly useful!”

“I doubt your mind was _totally_ blank, but still, you’re making progress,” Lydia says, smiling at him in approval. “Maybe Deaton can help you determine how you might further focus your spark,” she suggests. “You should talk to him about it when you see him tonight for your shot.”

“Good idea,” Stiles replies. Though it isn’t as though he can ask anyone else for help learning to control it. “In the meantime, what should we do about Kate?”

Stiles expects everyone to look to Scott for direction, given he’s the alpha, but they all turn to Derek instead. “Be on your guard,” Derek says, appearing comfortable with taking the lead on this.

“Be on your guard?” Erica repeats, bemused. “That’s it?”

“It’s all we can do for the time being since we don’t know what Kate’s plan is, aside from coming after Stiles.” Derek explains.

“Besides, she was alone with Stiles today and, fortunately, didn’t actually snatch him or harm him or anything else,” Scott says, elaborating on Derek’s point. “That doesn’t really give us much to go on as far as formulating a counterattack or a defensive strategy of any kind.”

“Right,” Derek says, another unhappy frown curling at the corners of his mouth. “So, go about the rest of your day as you normally would, but be on alert.”

All their phones suddenly chime at the same time to signal a new text message. Stiles is particularly surprised by this, considering the only person who used to text him regularly is Erica, and even then, she’d kept electronic communication at a minimum.

“I added Stiles back to the pack’s group chat,” Lydia says, tucking her own phone back inside her purse. Stiles opens the new message to discover that’s exactly what Lydia had texted everyone in the group chat. “If Kate shows up again, or if anything remotely suspicious happens, fire off a text to the pack,” she says, mostly to Stiles since everyone else surely is already aware of this protocol.

“Cool. Kinda like a wolf’s howl,” Stiles muses aloud, then bites his bottom lip and grins to himself. “What?” he says in response to everyone’s judgmental stares. “Wolves howl when they’re in trouble to signal the rest of the pack.” He waves his phone at them, then says, “Same thing.”

Derek groans and tilts his head back, gazing skyward, as though he’s praying for patience. Stiles feels his mouth go dry as he allows his eyes to linger on the long expanse of Derek’s throat. It’s a struggle to keep his feet firmly planted on the ground. The urge to nose at Derek’s neck is powerful, almost like a sense memory, like Stiles somehow _knows_ he would fit perfectly in the space there because he’s been there before.

“You lost all your memories, and yet you somehow made that exact same joke back when we first set up the pack’s group chat,” Derek says, effectively pulling Stiles out of his dazed stupor.

Stiles chuckles awkwardly, hoping none of the werewolves can smell whatever his emotions were doing seconds ago. He clears his throat and says, “Anyway, are you guys gonna hang here the rest of the day? Cuz I’d be fine with that.” He doesn’t know what everyone’s plans are, but surely there’s safety in numbers when an attack from Kate or other spark-related disasters seems imminent. “As you can see, the bakery doesn’t really get a lot of foot traffic during the afternoons,” he says, gesturing to the empty shop front. “Most people stop by for breakfast and lunch, and anyone who comes in during the afternoons usually only does so to place a custom order or to pick something up. So, you guys can totally stay and hang.”

“Sorry, Batman. You know I can’t,” Erica says.

That’s true. Erica wasn’t even supposed to come into work today. “I was gonna insist you go home, even if you’d offered to stay,” Stiles says, smiling kindly. “What about the rest of you?”

Lydia twists her wrist to read her watch. “I can’t. I need to get back to work.”

“Same,” Scott says, shoulders slumped in disappointment. “Work. At Deaton’s. And I won’t even see you later this evening when you stop by for your injection since I’ll be off by then, and I’m taking Mom dinner at the hospital,” he says, moping. Then, without warning, Scott springs forward in a flurry of limbs and abruptly hugs Stiles.

“Uh…” Stiles stiffens and isn’t sure what to do with his arms, even though that much ought to be obvious.

“Sorry, buddy,” Scott says, reluctantly pulling away as he flushes with embarrassment. He looks like a kicked puppy, and Stiles feels responsible. “It’s just been a really long time since I’ve been able to be around you.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, rubbing at the nape of his neck as he scrambles to make Scott feel better. “No worries. I get it,” he says. “Empathetically, anyway.” Then he stretches his arms out to the sides and says, “Free hugs, bro. Any time you want.”

Scott beams, bounces a little on the balls of his feet, then launches himself at Stiles again, wrapping him up in a great big bear hug. Stiles returns the hug, and when they pull apart, Stiles has to admit he feels better somehow. It’s not like he has any memories of Scott from the past, but something about their embrace feels familiar. Then again, maybe he’s feeling what Scott’s feeling, through the pack bond. He wonders vaguely if there’s a definitive way to tell whether or not it’s working on his end.

Derek takes a stilted step towards Stiles and wavers awkwardly for a moment, like he isn’t sure of what he’s going to do. It seems like he might want to come in for a hug too, until he hastily folds his arms over his chest and mumbles, “I’m sure you’ll get to see everyone again later. At the pack house.”

Stiles blinks up at him, suddenly self-conscious as he remembers all over again how he’d yelled at Derek, then stormed out of the pack house with all his things the night before. It’s the elephant in the room. Everyone had heard.

“Right. Later,” Stiles says.

Derek responds to that with a curt nod, and then things devolve into awkward staring and nodding and blinking because clearly they’re total disasters when it comes to human interaction.

“You’ll let me know how this staring contest ends, right?” Erica snarks, breaking the silence with her usual grace. Derek and Stiles immediately look away from one another, focusing on Erica instead. She shoulders her purse and says, “You staying, Derek?”

“Yeah. I can stay,” he replies.

“You can?” Stiles blurts out in disbelief. “Don’t you have to work at the nursery?”

Derek doesn’t answer the question. “I don’t have anywhere I need to be until later tonight, when Chris’ flight comes in. I’m picking him up at the airport.”

Stiles has the distinct feeling Derek is blowing off his responsibilities because he doesn’t want Stiles to be alone. Given Kate’s recent threats, Stiles understands and agrees with the sentiment. In spite of that, however, he doesn’t want to be a burden. He already feels like he’s disrupted everyone’s lives more than enough the past few days. “Really, it’s okay,” Stiles insists. “I’ll be fine. You don’t have to stay.”

Derek’s face closes off, and he stammers out, “Oh, well, I can go if you want—”

“No! You don’t _have to_ go,” Stiles says, panicking for some reason. “You can stay if you want to stay.”

Derek frowns as he considers it. “Do you want me to stay?” he asks, sounding guarded and almost timid.

Stiles swallows hard, suddenly hyper aware everyone is listening to their conversation. “I want you to stay if you want to stay,” he says, feeling ridiculous as the words leave his mouth. They’re talking in circles.

“Oh, my _God_. You both want Derek to stay,” Lydia proclaims, settling the matter for them. Then she opens the door and ushers Scott and a snickering Erica out of the bakery. “We’ll see you both later!” She flips her brilliant red hair over her shoulders and follows her friends out.

And just like that, the bakery is blanketed in silence. Derek stands awkwardly near the door, looking out of place and anxious, while Stiles takes cover behind the front counter as he rolls out the now chilled sugar cookie dough while he tries to figure out what to do next. When he notices Derek still hasn’t moved, Stiles says, “You can sit. If you want.” He sweeps his arm before him to indicate the entire room of empty tables and chairs.

Derek takes an abortive step forward but seems to think better of it. “I could help,” he offers hesitantly as he moves towards the front counter. “You probably don’t want to trust me with anything too complicated, but that’s your sugar cookie dough, isn’t it?” Stiles nods, and Derek says, “I think I can deal with baking sugar cookies.”

“Really, you don’t have to,” Stiles assures him, feeling somewhat self-conscious. With how much Erica’s covered for him at the bakery this week, he feels a bit like the pack might not think he’s all that good at running his own business. Sure, it gets tight sometimes, but he’s got a handle on things. He’s actually quite good at his job.

“I might as well,” Derek says, “I haven’t got anything else to do. And if I’m going to stay here all day, you should put me to work.”

Stiles sighs. Derek’s merely trying to be helpful. That’s all. “You make a good point,” he concedes. “C’mon.” He waves Derek over to his side of the counter and hands him a spare apron. “Just roll out the dough. Quarter-inch thickness. And use these,” Stiles says, producing a pair of cookie cutters from a drawer. “Stars and moons today. They’ll be easy to decorate.”

“Okay. I can do that,” Derek says as he picks up the rolling pin resting on the counter.

“Don’t worry. That’s not the same one you were impaled on,” Stiles says with a nervous chuckle.

Derek looks grossed out as he casts a wary glance at Stiles. “I didn’t think it was.”

Stiles knows there’s a blush rising high on his cheeks. He feels like an idiot. “I’m just gonna be in the kitchen for a minute,” Stiles says, jutting a thumb over his shoulder. “To do stuff.” He makes a hasty retreat before Derek can respond, pushing through the swinging door and letting out a breath when he’s alone in the kitchen. He’s being a total weirdo, and he needs to get a grip and handle this situation already.

Derek’s had a rough afternoon, what with dredging up so many traumatic events from his past. He probably doesn’t want to deal with one more emotional outburst from Stiles, but Stiles still needs to apologize to Derek for last night. And as Erica had reminded him, there’s a very real possibility Stiles won’t be able to break the memory spell, and he’ll go back to being completely oblivious to Derek and the pack’s existence. If that happens, Stiles can’t stand the thought that Derek might continue to put his own life on hold while he pines endlessly after a person who doesn’t even realize he exists. Derek needs to know it’s okay to move on—that he _should_ move on.

Mind made up, Stiles steadfastly marches out of the kitchen. “I need to talk to you about something,” he announces.

Derek briefly glances up from where he’s carefully arranging star-shaped cookies on a baking tray. His lips tick upwards the slightest bit into an amused smile. “I gathered,” he replies, going back to what he’s doing.

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “You gathered?”

“Enhanced hearing,” Derek reminds him, pointing to one of his ears. “I didn’t hear you doing anything when you stepped into the kitchen, so I figured you just needed a second to collect your thoughts.”

“Freakin’ werewolves,” Stiles grouses, idly wondering how long it took him the first time around to get used to living around werewolves and their superhuman abilities. “Anyway, I wanted to say I’m sorry for storming out of the pack house yesterday.”

Derek falters a little like he hadn’t expected to hear the apology, but he recovers quickly and resumes his work. “Don’t worry about it,” he says as he balls up the remaining cookie dough with star and moon shapes punched out of it. “I know you’re going through a lot. We all are. And this situation is unusual, to say the least.”

“Well, yeah. It is,” Stiles agrees, “but I still shouldn’t have lost it like I did. This is weird for all of us, and we simply don’t have the time for me to be throwing temper tantrums.”

“Honestly, Stiles. It’s fine,” Derek insists as he works the rolling pin over the dough to flatten it out again. He’s annoyingly calm, and all that does is set Stiles on edge.

“But I barged into your room and rifled through all your stuff,” Stiles persists. “And then I had the nerve to yell at you for it!”

“That’s a bit of an oversimplification, don’t you think?” Derek asks, pressing the moon-shaped cookie cutter into the dough. “I wasn’t completely truthful with you about everything between us. You had a right to be upset,” he says reasonably.

“Okay, fine, I did,” Stiles agrees, “but you’re allowed to be upset, too.”  
  
“Thanks for the permission?” Derek replies, bemused.

Stiles groans in frustration. “Clearly, I’m blowing this out of proportion because you’re over it already. But just let me get this out, okay?”

Derek patiently steps back from the counter to give Stiles his full attention. Frankly, Stiles feels like he’s being indulged, but that’s okay with him. He’s been agonizing over this conversation, so the important thing is that he’s able to get it off his chest, no matter the circumstances.

“First thing’s first,” Stiles begins. “Sorry for barging into your room, pawing through all your things, wrecking your bookshelf, and then yelling at you when you rightfully got mad at me.”

“Really, it’s fine. You already apologized for that,” Derek says. And as an afterthought, he adds, “Also, that was your own bookshelf you wrecked.”

“Awesome,” Stiles mutters dryly. “Would you let me finish?”

“By all means,” Derek says, biting back a smile. Stiles doesn’t comment on it. He has a lot to say, and he knows this is going to get serious pretty fast.

He takes a deep breath, slowly blows it out, then starts at the top. “As far back as I can remember, I’ve always sort of been a lone wolf. I don’t remember having any friends in school, the bakery doesn’t have any real neighbors, and I was under the impression I didn’t have any family left alive.” Derek has a soft, concerned expression on his face now, and Stiles is sure he’s thinking about his own family. “Kind of ironic, I guess.”

Derek shrugs his shoulders but doesn’t say anything else in response.

“I never went out on dates or anything because I was always busy working since I’m basically the only employee here,” Stiles continues. “Of course, I had Erica, but it always felt like she kept me at arm’s length. Now I understand it was to ensure we never got so close I wanted to visit her or meet her friends,” Stiles says, huffing out a laugh. “But then you broke in.”

“This again?” Derek scowls, affronted. “I did not break in. The door was open!” he exclaims indignantly. Stiles would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the way Derek got so defensive over the minor detail.

“It wasn’t open. It was unlocked,” Stiles argues right back.

“Which means it was open,” Derek states, maintaining his stance.

Stiles scoffs then because they can’t keep going on like this when he has more important things to say. “Agree to disagree?”

Derek heaves a long-suffering sigh and nods. “Agree to disagree,” he says. Stiles is no fool; he’s fairly certain the issue has merely been tabled until they can get back to discussing it later. That’s just fine with him, though. He’s absolutely prepared to win that fight.

“Like I was saying, you busted in here a week ago,” Stiles continues, mindful of his phrasing. “I figured out who you were, then you took me to the pack house, and I met the pack. That’s when I started to see these pieces to my life that were so obviously missing. I mean, I still don’t understand it fully because sometimes I don’t think I really fit into the pack—” Stiles falters a little as Derek emits a soft, subvocal growl. “I said _sometimes_ ,” Stiles stresses quickly, and Derek puts a stop to his growling. “ _Sometimes_ , it seems like there’s no way I fit into this pack, and yet, I know I belong here. It’s like this gut feeling or something.” Derek nods, most likely attributing it to the pack bond.

“In spite of how confusing all of this has been, I was excited finally to have a place to belong, people I could call friends— _family_ ,” Stiles says, a fond smile touching his lips. “I always wanted all of those things. But then I stumbled into your room. Well,” Stiles amends, “ _our_ room. And once I realized your things and my things were in that shared space, that we’d shared so much more than just a room, I had a bit of an internal meltdown,” he confesses, fully aware his face is flushed red at the admission.

“I already told you that’s understandable,” Derek begins to say, but Stiles shakes his head until Derek is silent again. He knows he’s taking too long to get to the point, but he needs to lay everything out like this so Derek can make sense of what he’s thinking.

“See, up until that moment,” Stiles carries on, “I was excited about everything I’d be gaining by having the pack in my life. But when I realized what you and I had been to each other, and when I started thinking about the life I’d lived in that room, with you, and with the pack, everything suddenly became about _loss_.” Stiles blinks away the sting of unwelcome tears. He’s almost finished. He needs to keep it together a little longer. “I realized the sheer magnitude of all that I’d lost, but also of all that I’d taken away from all of you.”

Derek shakes his head in confusion. “Stiles, what are you talking about?”

Stiles can’t believe Derek doesn’t get it. “You spent the past two years essentially living in a shrine to our relationship!” he exclaims.

Derek reels back like he’s been slapped. “What? Stiles, I don’t—”

“You didn’t touch any of my stuff,” Stiles barrels on. “I saw my things on the nightstand, the totally expired box of cookies on my side of the bed, my dirty clothes,” he lists off one by one.

“So?” The word practically explodes out of Derek’s mouth, and even he appears astonished by his response. “I wasn’t going to put your things in a box and shove it all aside simply because you were,” he waves a hand vaguely at Stiles, “I dunno, _spelled_.”

“But it’s been _two years_ ,” Stiles says. “You’ve been waiting for two whole years, Derek.”

“And it’s a good thing I did,” Derek contends, “because now you’re back.”

“Yeah, but for how long?” Stiles asks, tone challenging. “What happens if I can’t figure out how to lift the block on my memories? Are you gonna put your whole life on hold and keep waiting for years on end again?”

“I didn’t put my _whole_ life on hold,” Derek retorts defensively.

“You did,” Stiles says gently. “The important parts, anyway. And if I can’t figure out this stupid memory spell, I’m going to forget all about you,” he says, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. “I’ll forget, and you’ll watch and wait for years on end, apparently.”

“So, what?” Derek asks, determined and unyielding. “Sure, it’s been two years, but you’re back now.” Except they both know that isn’t entirely true. The Stiles that Derek knew—the one he was in love with—is still lost somewhere in Stiles’ mind. Still, Derek vows, “We’ll figure this out. We always do. You and me—together. I know we can fix this.”

“But you don’t,” Stiles persists. “I don’t remember the extent of our relationship. To be frank, it boggles my mind a person like you would even choose someone like me.” He lets out a self-deprecating laugh, and Derek frowns unhappily at the disparaging remark. “But if I can’t remove the block on my memories, you have to move on, Derek. I can’t stand the thought of you pining after _me_ ,” he says, voice trembling slightly. “I won’t remember you. It’s not fair that you should spend all your time thinking of me. Find a way to move on.”

Derek shakes his head in disbelief. “No!” he shouts. “You can’t ask that of me.” His face twists into an angry grimace, and he exhales loudly. “I thought you wanted to apologize. What the hell kind of apology is this?”

“That’s the thing,” Stiles says, doing his best to keep his voice steady. “The reason I freaked out yesterday is because I realized just how much is weighing on my ability to break this memory spell. And if I can’t—” his voice cracks then, and an anxious, incredulous giggle bubbles up unbidden from his gut. “God. Have you seen me with my spark?” He rolls his eyes. “It’s not looking good, Derek. And if it all goes south, then I want you to move on with your life, okay?” Derek doesn’t say anything, undoubtedly shaken by the turn this conversation has taken. Stiles screws up his courage and goes for the low blow. “If you love me as much as I think you do,” he says, and Derek looks stunned at the words streaming out of his mouth, “then do this for me,” Stiles implores. Because even though Stiles doesn’t quite love Derek right now, he’s able to see that he _could_ some day—that he _could have_ loved Derek Hale.

“Stiles, I can’t,” Derek says, like the words are being wrenched painfully from his very core. He sounds so brittle and raw, and Stiles hates that he’s the reason why. “There’s no moving on. You’re it for me, Stiles. You’re my endgame.”

Stiles thinks for a moment that Derek is simply being stubborn. He’s about to start all over again with his argument when Scott’s earlier lecture about pack bonds and _humans mated to werewolves_ suddenly comes to mind.

“Holy God,” Stiles whispers as realization dawns on him. “Are you—are we—” He shakes his head, scarcely daring to believe it, but Derek doesn’t offer an alternate explanation. “Oh, my God,” Stiles mumbles feebly. “We’re _mates_ , aren’t we?”

Derek purses his lips and nods. “I’m sorry,” he says brokenly, and deep down, Stiles knows it’s wrong that Derek is apologizing for this. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”

Stiles laughs, and he sounds a little hysterical if he’s perfectly honest. “I really don’t think there could have been a better way for me to find out, given the givens.”

“I didn’t want you to find out while you were still—” Derek helplessly waves a hand at Stiles again.

“Memory-impaired?” Stiles suggests, and Derek simply shrugs because it works. Stiles cards his fingers through his own hair and sighs wearily. “What even is my life anymore?” He stands there a second longer as he and Derek can only stare helplessly at one another, then storms into the kitchen. He clangs some pots and pans together, on his hands and knees as he roots around inside a cabinet in search of a particular saucepan.

Derek follows after him and warily calls out, “Stiles?”

“Just a minute,” Stiles mutters as he spots the saucepan in question. He yanks it out from under a stack of smaller pans, which, of course, results in a loud crashing noise as all the surrounding pots and pans are displaced. Stiles curses angrily and shoves at things until he’s able to close the cabinet, resolving to clean up the mess later.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks, undoubtedly curious as to why Stiles abandoned their conversation.

“I’m making coconut cream pie,” Stiles states matter-of-factly as he situates the saucepan on the stove and fetches milk and five eggs from the fridge. He cooks when he’s stressed, and he decides Derek either knows that about him already or has worked it out for himself since he doesn’t question it further.

“Are you going to be okay?” Derek asks, though the way he approaches Stiles like he’s a wounded animal makes it clear that Derek’s already formulated his answer to the question.

“I’m not sure yet,” Stiles replies honestly. “I need a minute to think.”

Derek studies him a moment longer, his expression inscrutable, then vanishes through the swinging door and into the shop front. Stiles doesn’t hear the bell over the front door, so he knows Derek hasn’t actually left the building.

As Stiles separates eggs, his mind races, frantically trying to make sense of what his disaster of an apology had devolved into. He’d meant to apologize to Derek and explain his actions from the night before. He’d also wanted to convince Derek to move on with his life, although he probably could’ve been a bit more nuanced with his approach. He definitely didn’t plan for the entire conversation to blow up in his face.

Now, the _mates_ revelation changes everything. Stiles doesn’t understand why Erica wouldn’t have mentioned it to him when counseling him on the importance of talking to Derek about moving on with his life on the more-than-off chance Stiles fails to reverse the memory spell. The way Derek had made it sound, there’s no moving on from a mate. He’d said Stiles was his _endgame_. What’s he supposed to do with information like that?!

Stiles finishes separating the last egg, and without warning, his spark suddenly crackles and pops off his fingertips, ostensibly triggered by his highly emotional state. Before he can do anything to stop it, his spark energy hits the eggs—his left hand zapping the bowl containing yolks, while the spark from his right hand falls into the bowl of egg whites. In an instant, both bowls are empty, devoid of eggs.

Stiles wants to scream with frustration because _what the hell_!? But he knows an emotional outburst at this point would surely mean his spark could inadvertently cause something even worse to happen. So, he closes his eyes and takes a few deep, calming breaths as he carefully clenches his fists tightly and wills the spark to dissipate. When he opens his eyes, the spark is gone.

With that accomplished, Stiles heads to the refrigerator for more eggs, only to make a startled squeak in the back of his throat when he opens the carton. The five eggs he’d cracked and separated are now in the egg carton once again. “No way,” Stiles mutters to himself as he picks one up to inspect it for damage. It’s whole and unassuming, just like the other four.

Stiles’ eyes dart left, then right, like he suspects someone is playing a prank on him, even though this is hardly the first time his spark has done something so bizarre. He thinks back to Halina’s emphasis on belief and to how Scott had said his spark has to do with intent. But Stiles had been thinking about Derek while cracking the eggs. What does Derek have to do with _eggs_?

Stiles narrows his eyes and considers the question.

 _Nothing_ , he decides.

Well, probably nothing. Unless werewolves lay eggs or something, but Stiles is about 89% certain that isn’t the case.

He cradles the carton of eggs close to his chest, shuts the refrigerator door, and returns to his workstation. One by one, he cracks the eggs and separates them all over again. He pauses for a moment, stares warily at his hands, but thankfully, nothing happens. With a sigh of relief, Stiles reaches for a can of coconut milk, and his fingers get that familiar, tingling sensation seconds before his spark rains down from his fingers and onto the eggs. Without warning, the eggs and egg carton appear to vanish into thin air. Stiles scowls, muttering unhappily to himself as he whips the refrigerator door open to discover all the eggs have returned there, whole and undamaged.

“What the hell!” he shouts, staring down at his hands like they might come alive if he isn’t careful.

“Stiles?” Derek yells anxiously from the shop front. Stiles hears something clatter against the counter, and then Derek bursts into kitchen, scouring the room for immediate threats. “What’s wrong?”

“My spark’s an asshole, that’s what’s wrong,” Stiles grouses, idly wondering how insane it would be to punch a wall in an effort to punish his spark for acting out. He ends up deciding against it, mostly because Derek’s here now, waiting for a proper response. “Sorry,” he mumbles sheepishly.

Derek breathes out in relief. “It’s fine,” he says. They make eye contact and exchange awkward, hesitant smiles as they both realize this conversation is beginning to sound just like the one they had before. But at least it manages to dispel some of the tension between them.

“My spark is acting up again,” Stiles explains because he isn’t quite ready to discuss all the details regarding mates with Derek just yet. “I’ve been trying to separate eggs, but every time I finish, the eggs magically repair themselves, and I have to start all over again.” Derek stifles a laugh, and even Stiles has to admit it’s a little funny. “All things considered, I guess I should be grateful the eggs aren’t trying to murder us.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I suppose there is that,” he says dryly. “If you want, I can separate the eggs for you. I just finished with the cookies, so why don’t you put them in the oven while I deal with the eggs?”

Stiles gazes down at his hands and flexes his fingers experimentally. Nothing happens, but he still says, “Yeah. I think that’s a good idea.”

Stiles sets the oven to preheat, then ducks into the shop front to collect the baking trays lined with cookies Derek prepared. He wipes clean the countertop and steps inside the kitchen again, ears alert for any jingling from the bell above the front door, signaling new customers. By the time he sets the cookies to bake, Derek is just separating the last egg. Stiles makes sure he stands a fair distance away from where Derek’s working so that there’s no chance his spark can accidentally tamper with the eggs again. He thinks he’s taken enough precautions, so it comes as a surprise when Stiles’ fingers begin to tremble and buzz with spark energy the second Derek tosses the last eggshell in the trash.

“Shit!” Stiles curses, staring helplessly at his hands, now crackling like sparklers on the Fourth of July. “What do I do? I don’t know why this keeps happening!”

Derek turns to get a good look at him, which is when Stiles’ spark shoots out of his hands, streaks through the air in an electric blue swirl, appears to loop around Derek’s shoulders in a strangely tender and affectionate caress, before the stream splits in half and swallows up the contents of the two bowls filled respectively with egg yolks and whites. The spark fizzles out a moment later, and Stiles doesn’t even need to look inside the fridge to know what he’ll find there. But he does anyway.

“Son of a bitch!” Stiles yells, glaring furiously at the five whole eggs sitting innocently on the second shelf of the fridge. “Seriously, what gives? Am I just unable to work with eggs from now on? I run a freaking bakery!” he screams at his open palms.

Derek seems to be puzzled by what’s going on, but he’s clearly more concerned with Stiles _talking to his own hands_. “Okay. Come with me,” Derek says, gently placing his hands on Stiles’ shoulders and steering him out of the kitchen and into the shop front. They walk around the front counter, and Derek pushes Stiles into an empty chair. “Sit,” he commands when Stiles moves to get up. Derek takes a seat across from him, then says, “Let’s figure this out. What you do with your spark relies heavily on belief and intent; so, what were you thinking about while cracking eggs?”

“Definitely not that I wanted Humpty Dumpty’s friends to be put back together again,” Stiles grumbles. “And again and again.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek chides. “Come on. Think.”

Stiles sighs and slumps in his chair. “I was thinking about you, okay?” He’s not sure why he feels so embarrassed about it, considering this shouldn’t come as a surprise to Derek. After all, Stiles had tried separating the eggs right after bungling his apology. “But I don’t know what that has to do with intent or whatever.”

Derek doesn’t respond immediately, taking time to parse through his thoughts. “You wanted our conversation to go differently, didn’t you?” he asks eventually.

“Well, _duh_ ,” Stiles snaps, still sulking.

Derek graciously ignores his irate tone. “Would you say your intent was to find a way to have a do-over, then?”

Stiles scrunches up his nose and frowns. “I guess?” he says uncertainly. Then his eyes brighten, and he sits up straight as he catches on. “You’re not saying my spark kept giving me another shot at the eggs simply because I wanted another shot at talking to you, are you?” He shakes his head incredulously. “That’s ridiculous. They’re _eggs_ , Derek. How does that have anything to do with talking to you?”

Derek shrugs his shoulders. “Intent,” he states simply.

Stiles wants to argue that would mean his spark is somehow acting like a sentient being—close to it, anyway—but the encounters with Kali and Jennifer remind him that isn’t exactly out of the ordinary.

“I think if you want your spark to quit interfering with the eggs, we can’t leave your do-over for later,” Derek says gently.

Stiles groans unhappily because he’s probably right, and because his spark is definitely an asshole. All he’d wanted to do was make something in the kitchen while he mulled over his options, and he can’t even have that!

The oven timer beeps then, signaling the sugar cookies have finished baking. Derek wordlessly gets up to pull them out of the oven so that they can cool, and that’s as long as Stiles gets to put off the do-over because Derek’s back again in no time.

“All right. Forgive me if this is a total train wreck because I didn’t exactly have a chance to rearrange my thoughts,” Stiles says, crossing his arms over his chest. Then he feels nervous having his palms pressed so close to his body, so he uncrosses his arms, almost puts his hands in his lap before thinking better of it, and ultimately rests his hands on the table before him.

Derek reaches over and slips his hands into Stiles’, not an ounce of apprehension on his face as he does so. Stiles blushes at the proximity. “Relax,” Derek says, lightly squeezing Stiles’ fingers. “I promise I’ll try to be more receptive this time, too.”

Stiles smiles, feeling bashful and self-conscious, but the words have the effect of putting him a little more at ease. “I guess I’m just trying to be realistic,” he begins again, foregoing the apologies for invading Derek’s room since it’s clearly no longer the reason for rising tempers. “Obviously, there’s nothing wrong with my spark; it works just fine. But I simply don’t know how to control it. And with the potency of Deaton’s serum wearing off in two days, I’m afraid I’ll run out of time to figure things out.”

“I understand your reservations, but Stiles, you have _two whole days_ ,” Derek says, emphasizing the words with another squeeze to Stiles’ fingers. “Instead of spending that time worrying about the consequences of the pack losing you again, why not devote all your energy into ensuring it won’t happen again?”

“Because it’s not a sure thing,” Stiles persists. “So, the least I can do is make sure you and my dad and the rest of the pack are okay this time around.”

Derek flinches at that. “This time around?” he echoes in dismay. And Stiles nods miserably, recalling one of the first things Derek had told him about the memory spell had been about how Stiles hadn’t touched base with anyone beforehand. Derek must realize this as well because he blows out a breath, then leans down slightly. “Hey,” he says, catching Stiles’ eyes. “Clearly, intent and belief have a lot to do with how your spark functions, right?”

Stiles nods, listening attentively.

“Then how do you expect to master it at any level when you’re constantly operating on the assumption—on the _belief_ —that you won’t be able to?” Derek demands.

Stiles gapes at him because that’s a fair point. Actually, it’s an excellent point. “I’ve been sabotaging myself,” he murmurs aloud, vaguely annoyed he hadn’t worked that out for himself. “Do you think—” Stiles stops himself and thinks back to how no matter how many times he separated the egg yolks from egg whites, his spark found a way to bring them back together again. “I think there’s more to the eggs,” he says.

Derek raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

“What else has been separated and needs to be put back together again?” Stiles prompts.

Derek blinks and furrows his brow. “You and your memories,” he answers, cottoning on.

Stiles nods and has to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. “I think I’m supposed to be the egg.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Stiles’ spark crackles out of the tips of his fingers for just a second, snapping around their joined hands before they startle and pull apart. “Are you okay?” Stiles asks in alarm, reaching for Derek before he thinks better of it and firmly sets his hands on top of the table. “Shit. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m fine,” Derek assures as he rubs his hands along his own thighs. “Felt a little like static electricity. Don’t worry.”

“Maybe I should wear oven mitts over my hands for the rest of my life,” Stiles muses, glumly staring down at the table.

“You should try to separate the eggs again,” Derek says abruptly. At Stiles’ questioning look, Derek says, “Why else do you think your spark zapped us right when you put together that the egg symbolizes you?”

“If you’re right,” Stiles says, “that means the spark, itself, has intent. That’s weird, isn’t it? Like, even on a supernatural scale adjusted for supernatural levels of weird?”

Derek looks like he might agree with that, but instead, he chooses to get up and nudge at Stiles until he can lead them back into the kitchen. With baited breath, Derek watches as Stiles retrieves the whole eggs from the fridge and cracks them into bowls, one by one, carefully separating yolks and whites once more. When Stiles holds the last egg in his hand, he hesitates a little, but Derek nods at him with enough confidence for the both of them. He believes this will work, so Stiles finds himself believing it as well.

“Here goes nothing,” Stiles whispers. Then he taps the egg along the rim of a bowl, cracks the shell in half, and carefully allows the egg whites to spill into one bowl before gently depositing the egg yolk into a separate bowl. Stiles discards the empty eggshells in the trash, then stands there with his arms raised high, waiting for his spark to undo everything.

But nothing happens.

“Holy God. It worked!” Stiles exclaims, and Derek beams at him proudly, like he never had any doubt that it would. Stiles can’t help it; he throws himself into Derek’s arms and hugs him tightly, settles there for a moment when he feels Derek’s arms wrap around him to hug him back. Stiles lets out one long breath that feels as though it’s traveled up all the way from his toes. He feels light and hopeful and relieved beyond reason, and he only has Derek to thank.

“I’m gonna do it,” Stiles declares, mouth set in a firm, determined line. Derek reluctantly pulls away, and his eyebrows rise in question. “I’m gonna figure out my spark, and I’m gonna get my memories back,” Stiles says with conviction, refusing to have it any other way. He swears he feels his spark energy buzz warmly just under his skin, and he’s surprised to find it both comforting and reassuring.

Derek smiles down at him fondly, affectionately, and it takes Stiles’ breath away. “I know you will,” he says. And Stiles believes him.


	13. Chapter 13

Stiles’ spark decides to give him a break, meaning the rest of the day at Claudia’s Bakery is blissfully uneventful. He’s chipper and giggly around Derek as they frost sugar cookies together, and he tries not to leer too much when Derek’s muscles bunch and roll and flex beautifully as he kneads dough. Stiles knows there’s so much more to Derek than his good looks, but that acknowledgement doesn’t mean he isn’t allowed to appreciate the view—especially not when he’s caught Derek sneaking a few looks of his own, too. Stiles expects to feel self-conscious under the lingering glances, but it actually only sends a thrill down his spine. Certainly, it’s nice to be wanted, but it’s positively intoxicating to feel desired.

It’s only been a week, but Stiles sure has come a long way from fondling fondant figurines and cake toppers and qualifying that as any form of _action_ —mocking or not. By the end of the day, Stiles wants nothing more than to kiss Derek. Just one kiss, and he’s sure he’d be sated for the time being. Stiles is fairly certain Derek wants it too, if the hungry way he keeps staring at Stiles’ mouth is anything to go by. To be fair, Stiles has a bit of an oral fixation, and the way he’s been cycling through a random pattern of persistently biting, licking, and pursing his own lips has got to be distracting, to say the least. In fact, it’s the only way Stiles can distract himself enough not to punch Derek in the face with his mouth.

Because in spite of the way he feels drawn to Derek, Stiles refuses to initiate anything. Without his memories intact, it would be wrong and unfair to them both since they’re clearly not on equal footing with regards to their relationship. Not to mention the serious health code violations that might ensue as a result of any… _action_.

Which is why it’s a small blessing when Derek says he can’t accompany Stiles to Deaton’s clinic that afternoon since he’s promised to collect Chris Argent at the airport. Beacon Hills is a small town that doesn’t have its own airport, and it’s nearly an hour’s drive to the one in the next town over. But he hopes to meet back at the pack house in time for dinner. Stiles might be more upset about this time apart if not for the fact that it’s so much easier to focus on learning about his spark without his libido constantly vying for his attention. This short break couldn’t have come at a better time.

“So, I think my spark might actually have a mind of its own,” Stiles says by way of greeting as he enters Deaton’s clinic after hours.

Deaton reacts only by arching an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?” he asks, then turns around to collect materials he’ll need in order to administer Stiles’ serum. Stiles follows him back to the exam room, used to the routine by now.

“I know we’re operating on the theory that Kali and Jennifer are, like, _beings_ or whatever that my spark manifested into, right?” Deaton hums and nods slightly as he measures out liquid into the—

Stiles turns away, grimacing and feeling squeamish. He puts the needle out of his mind and stares instead at the grimoire, which sits unassuming as ever beside him. “That’s what you guys have been _telling_ me though,” Stiles continues, forging on. “But I’ve never quite believed it? Like, seeing is believing, y’know? And, I mean, sure, I _saw_ Kali and Jennifer, but what I didn’t actually see is my spark, like, _creating_ them or whatever?”

“I feel compelled to inform you I might better follow your train of thought if you made an effort not to end each sentence as though it were a question,” Deaton points out dryly. Then he walks over to where Stiles is sitting on a silver table meant for the four-legged clientele that frequent this clinic and utters the command that’s become all too familiar at this point. “Make a fist.”

Stiles does, squirming a bit and squeezing his eyes shut, wishing Derek were here for moral support or maybe simply to glare at something. He makes a squeaky noise in the back of his throat when the needle breaks skin, but thankfully, it’s over within seconds. He instantly feels the serum’s effects as it assuages the beginnings of a headache he didn’t even realize was weighing him down until it starts to dissipate.

“Go on,” Deaton prompts as he secures a new band-aid to the crook of Stiles’ arm.

Stiles takes a deep breath and starts over, mindful not to phrase things as questions unnecessarily. He finds it actually helps him to slow his racing thoughts since he needs to think about his words first. _Imagine that_.

Painstakingly, Stiles recounts all the events caused by his spark that day: accidentally exploding all the light bulbs in his bakery that morning, somehow repairing then lighting the candle after his run-in with Kate, and the strange episode with the eggs late in the afternoon.

“Hm,” Deaton says once Stiles has finished, not having interrupted once during the entire explanation. Stiles finds his patience admirable. “You’re certain Kate didn’t mention anything else with regards to how she intends on using your spark?”

“No. I told you everything that happened,” Stiles replies, doing his best not to be short with the vet. He understands that out of everything, the stuff about Kate sounds most pressing; however, he doesn’t want to talk about her right now. He wants Deaton to tell him what he needs to do to properly regain control of his spark. “I know Kate’s coming after me soon,” Stiles admits in an effort to turn the conversation around, “and when she does, I wanna be on top of my spark. I can’t just cross my fingers and hope Kate miraculously leaves again in the middle of the confrontation, and I definitely don’t want to bank on my spark randomly saving my ass only if it feels so obliged.”

Deaton huffs out what could barely be considered a laugh. “Speaking of which, to address your original concern, yes, you might say your spark has a mind of its own; although, it’s actually _your_ mind.”

Stiles wants to be annoyed with an answer like that, but then he recalls after Jennifer kicked their asses, Derek had explained his spark is a part of him. He can’t merely give it away, and he certainly can’t survive without it. In a way, what Deaton is saying makes sense, but in a much bigger way, it totally doesn’t.

“I’m aware the spark is a part of me,” Stiles says, “but are you implying I somehow _wanted_ my spark to keep repairing eggs I’d already separated over and over again? Or that when Kate had me alone and cornered in the woods, the only thing I wanted more than anything else was to light a freakin’ candle?”

“I believe you said you managed to do that after she left,” Deaton points out. “But, well, yes,” he says in response to the question.

Stiles gapes at him, appalled. “But, well, _no_ ,” he retorts, ready to go off on a fiery tirade. But then his fingers begin trembling ever so slightly, and Stiles can feel his spark pulsing just under his skin. “Shit,” he curses, then jumps off the table and begins to pace anxiously, as though he might somehow work off the emotional energy bubbling at the surface of his mind. “I don’t want _this_ ,” he insists, wondering how he ever could have controlled his emotions well enough not to inadvertently blow up or set on fire everything in his vicinity.

Deaton startles a little, which is Stiles’ only indication he understands what’s happening. “You’ve been reading the grimoire, haven’t you?” he asks.

“Yes, of course,” Stiles snaps, briefly glancing back at it. “For once, just give me a straight answer, would you?”

Deaton purses his lips into a tight frown at the outburst but doesn’t comment on it otherwise. “From what you’ve read,” he continues, infuriatingly calm, “have you been able to assess the key component required in doing anything with your spark?”

“I don’t know. Magic?” Stiles guesses. As soon as the words leave his mouth, his spark flares out of his left hand. The ball of glowing blue energy bounces across the silver exam table, leaps onto the counter, and upends a canister of dog treats. As the treats scatter everywhere, the spark vanishes into the concrete floor. Stiles curses angrily. “Doc, this isn’t working!”

“Answer the question,” Deaton demands.

Stiles is so frustrated he could _scream_. And that’s precisely when his spark crackles to life in his right hand and zaps the exposed brick wall of Deaton’s clinic so hard that it actually blasts a tennis ball-sized hole clear through it. Stiles yelps in alarm and exclaims, “Holy God!” He stares at his hand in horror and has enough presence of mind to think how lucky he is that his spark hadn’t made a hole through _Deaton_ instead.

“Stiles!” Deaton shouts in order to draw his attention. “The question,” he persists. “Answer the question.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Stiles cries, shuddering at the panic steadily creeping up his spine. “I’ve only read through the first section of the grimoire, okay?” he confesses, feeling beyond inadequate.

“Think, Stiles,” Deaton says, firm and unyielding. “I can’t do this for you. No one can.” He repeats the question once more: “What is the one thing you need in order to do anything with your spark?”

The simple rephrasing is all it takes for a whirlwind of images to assault Stiles’ mind all at once. He thinks back to the core message in all of Halina’s advice throughout the grimoire, reflects especially on what Halina had written in her entry about meeting Niko, and most prominently, recalls what Derek had said in the kitchen earlier that day. “Belief,” Stiles whispers. He glances at Deaton, positive that this is the answer he’s looking for. “That’s the key component. Belief.”

Deaton smiles at him with pride. “Good.”

The satisfaction of arriving at the correct answer has helped to calm Stiles enough that he’s fairly certain he won’t accidently fire his spark at anything else in the clinic, but he can feel it wouldn’t take much for the pot to boil over once again, so to speak. “Is that it?” Stiles asks, confused. “Because I already believe in the spark.” He gestures to the hole in the wall and quips, “Your brand new view into the parking lot should make that much clear.”

“Your spark is a part of you, Stiles. And as you’ve stated, you believe in the spark.” Deaton stops there and stares expectantly at him.

Stiles blinks once, twice, then pulls a face. “I need to believe in myself?” he says uncertainly.

“Got it in one,” Deaton replies.

“God, that’s so cheesy,” Stiles says, chuckling. “My spark’s been going haywire because I need to believe in myself?”

“Exactly,” Deaton says. “I’m sorry I didn’t arrive at the conclusion much sooner. It’s actually rather amusing—” Stiles braces himself for whatever the aloof man before him classifies as funny. “When you came to me for help back when you first discovered your spark,” Deaton says, “you had no trouble believing in yourself. You’d discovered your spark after spending so much time as a human running with wolves, you see. You were confident in your abilities as a human. But in spite of all you’d done and seen, for some reason, it was difficult for you to come to terms with your spark.”

“I had the same problem, but in reverse,” Stiles says, finding that more intriguing than humorous. “Maybe it’s not that I didn’t believe in the spark, but that I simply couldn’t believe that out of everyone in the pack, I was the one granted that sort of power.”

“Possibly,” Deaton allows. “You know yourself better than anyone else does, even though that must seem unfathomable to you right now. In any case, belief is only the first half of the equation. The second—”

“Is intent,” Stiles finishes.

Deaton looks stunned for a moment, then delighted. “Yes. Intent,” he says, enthusiasm growing. “You must believe in your skill _and_ have a clear intent for whatever it is you wish to do.”

It sounds simple enough, though Stiles’ mishaps the past few days certainly prove otherwise. “So, to recap, my spark randomly kept acting up because I believed in my spark, but not in myself?”

“Well, you didn’t believe in your own abilities, beyond the spark,” Deaton clarifies. “And it wasn’t necessarily at random. I would venture to guess your spark most likely acted up when you were especially emotional since those are points in time when your mind is free from the weight of the thoughts and doubts that were holding you back.”

Stiles takes a moment to let that sink in. Essentially, nothing was working out because he couldn’t step out of his own way. And while he bemoaned his emotional outbursts all throughout a very emotional situation, it was actually the only reason his spark ever managed to do anything at all!

As if on cue, Stiles feels his spark flare inside him, just barely pushing at the boundaries of his body, as if to reprimand him for the self-imposed pity party. This is precisely the pattern of thinking that got him into this mess in the first place. But he resolves things will be different now.

Stiles bounces a little on the balls of his feet, pent up energy making him restless, now that he knows what to do with it. “Belief and intent, right, doc?”

Deaton nods, then steps back to give him some space.

Stiles takes that as his cue to close his eyes and seek out his spark. He still wouldn’t be able to explain where, precisely, his spark is located, but in his mind’s eye, he envisions it somewhere at his core. Perhaps it _is_ his core. In any case, all that matters is Stiles believes in the capabilities of his spark, and he believes he is worthy of controlling it. With both thoughts firmly in mind, Stiles thinks about the dog treats still spread across the floor, then splays out his fingers and sends his spark towards the mess, confident that it will do as he wishes.

Tentatively, Stiles opens his eyes and watches in awe as the spark practically floats through the air, as though carried across a gentle breeze, and settles like a glowing blue blanket over the scattered dog treats. The spark suddenly crackles and fizzles, then winks out of existence, taking the dog treats with it. A second later, it reappears as a glowing blue orb on the counter, engulfs the overturned canister, and vanishes into the air one final time, leaving behind the container of dog treats refilled, upright, and undisturbed.

“I did it!” Stiles exclaims excitedly. “Right when and where I wanted!” This small yet significant victory almost feels overwhelming after days of doubting he’d ever manage to do anything at all.

“Well done, Stiles,” Deaton says, and the man is actually smiling. It’s a close-lipped smile, but his lips are curved upwards and everything. It might be a little unsettling to witness if not for the fact that Stiles is far too busy processing his own kaleidoscope of glee, pride, and relief.

Then, the beaming grin abruptly falls from his face as Stiles brings his hands up in alarm and inspects them carefully.

“What is it?” Deaton asks, brow furrowed.

“I’m kinda having a lot of emotions right now,” Stiles confesses warily. “That’s usually when the spark goes out of control.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t think that will happen anymore,” Deaton says. “Your spark only acted out when you did not fully believe in your abilities. You’ll probably notice your spark _responds_ to emotion, but it shouldn’t spontaneously take charge like it has been anymore.”

“Wait. Does that mean my spark isn’t gonna manifest into crazy dead people and try to kill me anymore?” Stiles asks hopefully.

Deaton strokes his chin and looks thoughtful. “Honestly, I’m not sure,” he says, which makes Stiles’ heart sink a little. “I’m still uncertain as to what caused your spark to manifest into Kali and Jennifer. Turning into entire people is rather extreme, compared to inadvertently lighting a candle or repairing eggs.”

“Fair point,” Stiles concedes with a sigh. “I’ll run it past the pack at dinner tonight. Maybe they’ve found something in their research that could help.”

“Regardless, I would advise you don’t let your guard down,” Deaton says. “Certainly not until you and your pack are able to ascertain the threat Kate Argent poses.”

Stiles nods and agrees. Better safe than sorry, as the saying goes. Suddenly, a cool breeze wafts in through the hole he blasted through Deaton’s wall earlier. “I should probably fix that,” he says sheepishly.

Deaton hesitates a moment, like he wants to say something, but then he changes his mind and gestures for Stiles to have at it.

Repeating what he did before, Stiles closes his eyes, focuses on his spark, and pours his belief into it. He envisions his spark gathering up the broken brick pieces that have crumbled to the ground and placing them back where they belong, effectively repairing the wall. Clear on his intent, Stiles opens his eyes, points his palms at the hole, and wills his spark to repair it.

This time, his spark spirals out of his hands into several different streams of varying lengths, and he feels a little like Spider-Man as spindly, crackling lines of his spark attach one by one to the largest and smallest bits of debris from the wall. There must be over a hundred points linked back to Stiles’ hands by the time the spark abruptly disconnects from his palms, makes the broken brick pieces pulse and glow brightly for one second, before they all suddenly rush towards the hole in the wall with such force that Stiles actually staggers back a few steps.

“Whoa,” Stiles breathes out when he recovers. And then he glances at the wall, where all the brick pieces have returned to where the hole used to be, except none of the pieces are in the correct position. It’s as though someone jammed the pieces into the hole in any way they might fit and stay put. The hole is a jagged mess of an eyesore now, and it’s definitely not what Stiles had meant to do. “Uh…” Stiles stammers, unsure of what to say.

Deaton is clearly amused, though he gives Stiles a knowing look. “Can you tell me what you did wrong?”

“I honestly have no clue,” Stiles insists. “I started exactly like I did when I cleaned up the dog treats. I imagined the brick pieces returning to the wall, repairing the hole. My intent was to fix the hole, and—”

“And that’s what you did,” Deaton interjects. “You fixed the hole.”

Stiles scoffs. “I wouldn’t call that fixed.”

“Neither would I,” Deaton assures him with a wry grin. He crouches next to the hole, presses a finger into the wall’s rough surface, and traces a shape Stiles can’t follow without ink of some sort. When he finishes, Deaton blows against the brick wall, and the shape—which Stiles now sees resembles a cursive ‘J’ with extra swirls and loops around it—pulses and glows a blinding white for a moment before it vanishes back into the wall like it was never even there.

“Okay, _what_?” Stiles exclaims in utter astonishment. He has no idea what he just witnessed. He’s aware Deaton’s a druid, but seriously, _what_? Nothing actually happened as a result of the glowing shape he traced into the wall, but if that’s the case, then what was the point of it at all?

“It’s a sigil,” Deaton supplies as he straightens and dusts off his knees. “After you leave, I’ll work on another one to act as a glamour outside, but for now, I’ve ensured that point in the wall remains strong and sturdy, until you’re able to return and fix it properly.”

Stiles stares dubiously at the wall and wonders if he can talk Deaton into hiring a contractor instead. Or maybe there’s a way to convince him simply to grow used to a giant, lumpy hole in his exam room wall for the rest of time.

Deaton appears to read the doubt on Stiles’ face and tries coming at it from a different angle. “Look at the dog treats,” he says, picking up the same canister Stiles used his spark to refill. He opens it and points to the treat resting at the top of the pile. “Before your spark caused all the treats to spill out of this container, was this the treat that was in this exact position?”

Stiles bites at his bottom lip. “I dunno. Maybe?”

Deaton raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. Clearly, this isn’t an acceptable answer.

“Okay, no. Probably not,” Stiles amends. “But that’s ridiculous. Are you trying to say I’d need to imagine the correct placement of each individual piece of that brick wall in order to repair it? Because that’s impossible.”

“Considering you’re only at the beginning of your training, yes, it’s impossible for you to fix it properly right now,” Deaton says. “But there are other techniques that you’ll hopefully discover through the course of perusing the grimoire. Until then, your spark is rather limited in what it can do, unless you are extremely detailed and specific with how you direct your intent.”

Stiles has a hard time buying that. “What about Kali and Jennifer?” he challenges. “My spark created entire _people_. A measly little hole shouldn’t be a big deal.”

“That was your spark,” Deaton agrees, “but those actions weren’t paired with your intent. The manifestations of Kali and Jennifer were anomalies—ones we still cannot explain.”

Stiles groans in frustration and reluctantly admits, “I guess that makes sense.” Then he shifts gears and asks, “What exactly are the spark rules? Like, what all can I do with it?”

“Theoretically, practically anything,” Deaton replies.

Stiles’ eyebrows rise in surprise. “ _Anything_ at all?” he insists. “Like, win the lottery, shoot a man in Reno, and turn the sky sea foam green and the grass purple and chocolate-flavored?”

Deaton’s stare is judgmental, but he answers, “Yes. Potentially. And with training. If it is your intent, you can will it so.”

Stiles hums thoughtfully, wondering if Deaton’s holding back on purpose. “That’s kinda dangerous, though, isn’t it?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

“Yes, in many ways. First and foremost, the power could go to someone’s head,” Deaton warns. “It happens all the time, as I’m sure you can imagine.” Stiles balks because what is that supposed to mean? “But there are built-in preventative measures, so to speak. Using your spark for anything will wear you out, so don’t forget to eat something and hydrate once you get home tonight. Using your spark to fulfill a dark intention, however, requires a heavier trade.”

Stiles swallows thickly. “Like what?” he asks, almost afraid to hear the answer.

Deaton actually glares at him then. “Ask the question you actually want to ask.”

Stiles grimaces apologetically but doesn’t waste anymore time. “Do you think I have a dark spark?”

The question seems to catch Deaton off guard, and Stiles tries not to imagine what the vet had expected him to ask instead. “This again? What makes you ask?” Deaton inquires once he’s schooled his features back into a mask of calm collectiveness.

“As you know, Jennifer said something about it to Derek in the preserve,” Stiles replies. “She said my spark was turning dark, and now I’m wondering if I maybe did something so awful—so _dark_ —that the trade-off was my memories of the pack and of my spark.”

Deaton frowns as he takes a moment to consider seriously the possibility. Finally, he says, “I can picture selective memory loss being a so-called trade-off for using your spark to fulfill a dark intention, but I can’t fathom what you could have done to warrant this kind of punishment.”

“Something bad, obviously,” Stiles says glumly.

“Well, yes,” Deaton agrees, “but that isn’t what I mean. You see, when dark magic of any kind is performed, it leaves behind an unmistakable residue of sorts. Even ordinary humans can feel it, though they have no way of knowing what it is they’re feeling.”

“The heebie-jeebies!” Stiles exclaims. “Those are real?”

Deaton only shrugs his shoulders in response, then continues. “If dark intent is truly responsible for your memory loss, then the resulting residue would have been much too prominent simply to ignore,” he explains. “When you lost your memories initially, your pack searched the preserve for offending witches, sorcerers, and other creatures of the like who might have been responsible. Clearly, they didn’t find anyone, but they also didn’t detect any residual dark energy anywhere nearby.”

“Meaning my memory loss isn’t a side effect of dark magic or whatever?” Stiles says uncertainly.

“Possibly. It’s difficult to say,” Deaton replies. “The memory loss might still be a side effect or symptom of something else. And before you get any ideas,” he adds, narrowing his eyes at Stiles, “under no circumstances should you use your spark to attempt retrieving your memories.”

“I don’t want my brain to look like that,” Stiles says, gesturing to the hole in the wall. “C’mon, doc. I’m not _that_ stupid.”

“I’ll grant you that,” Deaton says, “though you may become _that_ desperate.”

Stiles would protest if it wasn’t such a fair point.

“It goes without saying that anything to do with a person’s mind must be handled delicately,” Deaton explains. “We cannot attempt lifting the block on your memories until we know exactly what we’re doing; otherwise, we risk further damaging your mind.”

“I won’t try anything on my own. You have my word,” Stiles promises.

Deaton purses his lips and doesn’t look convinced. Stiles can’t fault him for it, considering he lost his memories in the first place because he was off doing something with his spark on his own.

“Is there anything else I can help you with before you go?” Deaton asks as he checks the time on his phone.

“Well, I feel like I have a good handle on my spark now,” Stiles says. “I know I’m not a master or anything, but I feel like I know what I’m doing. I didn’t when I walked through your door today, so thank you for that,” Stiles says, genuinely meaning it. He’s not sure where he’d be right now without Deaton’s guidance.

“I’m glad I could be of service,” Deaton replies humbly.

“And you’re totally sure you don’t know anything else about what I could do or where I ought to look in order to get one step closer to lifting the block on my memories, right?” Before Deaton can scold him, Stiles adds, “I promise I won’t try anything! But your serum runs out in two days. I’m nearly out of time. Any hints would help.”

“I realize you think I enjoy never giving you a straight answer—I think that’s how you all put it,” Deaton says, and Stiles shrinks into himself slightly as his face heats up in embarrassment. “But I certainly would have told you the answer to that question if I’d known it all this time.”

Stiles heaves a weary sigh. “I know. Sorry. I figured I ought to ask, at least.”

“Continue to read the grimoire,” Deaton advises. “Now that you have a better understanding of your spark, you might benefit from skipping to the end to read your old entries. But remember to look through the rest of the entries as well. That book contains the entire history of your heritage as a spark. All of it is important, even if it isn’t especially relevant at this moment.”

For some reason, Stiles can only think of teachers in his past who have insisted on the paramount importance of doing all the assigned reading, even though exam questions are always from the PowerPoints instead. Regardless, he tells Deaton, “Will do.” Because he will. At least, he wants to. But the thing is, Deaton’s serum will quit working in two days, and if Stiles can’t lift the block on his memories by then…

The urgency of the situation weighs heavily on his mind, though he tries to counter the apprehension by thinking instead about how Derek seems so sure that two entire days is more than enough time for Stiles to figure this out. After all, within hours of his pep talk, Stiles already has a better handle on his spark than he ever could have imagined.

He can do this. He totally can. He believes it.

And he thinks it’s his firm resolve that causes the spark to pulse warmly in his chest as soon as the thought forms completely. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the strangely familiar way it seems to communicate with him now. It’s comforting, to say the least.

“Stiles?” Deaton calls out uncertainly, his eyebrows pinched together in an expression of concern.

“Read the grimoire, and keep practicing with my spark,” Stiles lists off on his fingers. “That’s the game plan, right?”

Deaton’s face relaxes again, and he responds with a curt nod. “Keep in mind that your abilities should return to you with more speed, now that you’ve tapped into a basic understanding of how to control your spark.” Stiles thinks that’s great, until Deaton continues with a grim warning. “However, you’ll need to resist the urge to overdo it. Regardless of what you do with your spark, using it depletes your energy. You should eat well, hydrate often, and rest as you see fit in order to counteract such effects. If you try to take on more than you’re ready or able to handle, you risk the very real possibility of hurting yourself— _or worse_ —before you have a chance to replenish your energy reserves.”

“You can’t seriously think I might accidentally kill myself.” Stiles wishes he didn’t sound so offended, but _come on_! He wouldn’t have made it this far in life—in spite of werewolves and mysterious memory spells and other supernatural shenanigans—if he didn’t possess the most basic of self-preservation instincts.

Deaton appears to consider his words for a minute, as though he’s deciding whether or not to dignify it with any sort of response. “Yes, I do,” he says eventually, sticking to his guns. “It’s a distinct possibility.”

“A _distinct_ possibility?” Stiles scoffs with righteous indignation. “One that’s so likely that you literally felt the need to warn me not to accidentally kill myself?” He lost his memories—not his will to live!

Deaton shrugs unapologetically. “Should you wind up doing so anyway,” he says, which causes Stiles to glower, affronted, “I’ll find comfort from the knowledge that it wasn’t because I failed to warn you not to.”

“ _Rude_ ,” Stiles grouses.

Deaton exhales a long-suffering sigh and finally acknowledges that Stiles has taken issue with his comments. “Let me add that before you lost your memories, you always demonstrated the uncanny ability to solve puzzles and riddles of all kinds. Even things that were beyond me at certain times.” Stiles’ mouth falls open a little. That’s high praise, coming from Deaton. “You may not be aware of it now,” the vet continues, “but you possess within you an almost innate ability to find the answers you seek. I’ve seen it before—several times.”

There’s no way Stiles can bite back the dorky grin that blooms across his face. He didn’t realize until now just how much he needed to hear something like that. It isn’t exactly encouragement that he needed, but instead, it’s the straightforward confidence in his abilities from a person who doesn’t otherwise demonstrate any biases towards him. The comments somehow seem more believable coming from Deaton, even though Derek and the rest of the pack have voiced or implied similar opinions. He isn’t sure what to make of the disconnect.

“I know you’re capable of retrieving your memories; it’s simply a matter of when that will happen,” Deaton goes on reassuringly. “But I also know from experience that you have a tendency to ignore your own limits, especially when your pack is under threat. So, it bears noting and repeating from time to time: _be careful_.”

Stiles isn’t so much disgruntled as he is discomfited and self-conscious now. “I’ll be careful,” he promises, although it isn’t as though he’d ever been planning to do the opposite.

Deaton pins him with a searching look, and Stiles fidgets uncomfortably under the scrutiny. “Very well,” he murmurs after a moment, evidently satisfied with whatever he sees. “Until tomorrow evening,” he says, which Stiles gratefully accepts as the dismissal that it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has been a little too busy to bake, but yesterday I made [pumpkin spice latte cupcakes](https://www.instagram.com/p/BZl1kcwFqXM/?taken-by=supjoya) drizzled with salted caramel—all from scratch! :D Catch yall next week!


	14. Chapter 14

Stiles feels as though he spent hours at Deaton’s, but the sun’s still out when he leaves, and he manages to arrive at the pack house before dinner is even ready. He discovers Boyd is making meatballs from scratch, while Isaac’s responsible for boiling spaghetti and preparing his self-proclaimed famous tomato sauce, which turns out to be a large can of diced tomatoes with a meatball mashed into it. Stiles watches on in horror, hands itching to get in there and salvage it in some way. Unfortunately, Erica stops him before he can barge in.

“Nope. I know what you’re thinking,” Erica says, stepping in his way and effectively blocking his path into the kitchen. “Boyd and Isaac have dinner covered. The rest of the pack will be here soon to help. You go read the grimoire until it’s time to eat.” Her hair is bundled up high on her head in a messy bun, and she’s wearing sweatpants and Boyd’s old lacrosse jersey. She looks so unassuming, but Stiles knows better than to be deceived by appearances, so he reluctantly backs off.

“Fine. I’ll go,” he grumbles. “But first, I need to get a snack. And a drink. Doctor’s orders.”

Erica’s confused for a split second before it clicks for her. “Spark stuff?” she asks hopefully, which catches Boyd and Isaac’s attention as well.

“Spark stuff,” Stiles confirms, just barely suppressing the pleased, satisfied grin that wants to eat up his entire face. Erica correctly takes that to mean Stiles has made some major progress, and she squeals with delight. “I’ll show you guys later,” Stiles promises, addressing Boyd and Isaac, too. “After dinner.”

Erica is buzzing with excitement for him and is distracted long enough for Stiles to pull out a handful of basil leaves from the refrigerator. “Chop that up, and add it to the tomato sauce,” he hurriedly instructs Isaac.

He nearly grabs a bulb of garlic from the fridge before Erica yanks him back by his shirt collar. “That’s enough of that!” she chides. Then she presses an apple and a napkin into one of his hands and a bottle of water into the other. “Out!” she commands, pointing towards the living room.

Isaac is doing an awful job of stifling his giggles, and even Boyd is unable to hide the faint expression of amusement on his face. Stiles sticks out his tongue at them both, then leaves when Erica hustles him away. _  
_

The living room is empty when Stiles gets there, and he has a hunch Erica’s going to ensure it stays that way while he’s studying the grimoire. He settles into a large blue armchair that faces the entrance of the room, and he feels like a total badass when he effortlessly cuts his apple into thin slices using only the power of his spark. Slowly, he tunes out the low murmur of voices and clinking of dishes from the kitchen and allows himself to get lost in the reading as he snacks and sips water.

He’s tempted to continue with Halina’s entries because she’s organized and easy to understand, and he’s kind of curious if anything more came of her Harvest Festival date with Niko; however, Deaton’s suggestion— _permission_!—to skip ahead to his own entries is far too intriguing, so he resolves to catch up with Halina and Niko later.

Stiles easily finds the first page of his own entries near the back of the grimoire and immediately notes the date is from a little over five years ago. That means he’d actively documented his spark-related learning experiences for about three years before losing his memories. Stiles isn’t sure if that’s important, but he doesn’t mind learning random new details about himself when such things are otherwise in short supply.

Without further ado, Stiles proceeds to read his entries in the order in which they were written. He discovers his first experience with his spark occurred as early as when he was still in high school, and it involved him creating a barrier by surrounding an entire building using only a handful of something called mountain ash. Deaton had been involved with that, which doesn’t surprise Stiles the least bit.

Nearly a year after that, the entries become sparse and erratic before stopping completely for a few months. The word _NOGITSUNE_ is scrawled across the top of an empty page with only a green sticky note on it that reads _Fill out later_. _~~Maybe ask Derek? Kira? Scott?~~_

Stiles frowns to himself as he spares a moment to wonder at the mystery of the “nogitsune.” He’s somewhat surprised to note he’d written Kira’s name on the sticky note—mostly because he hasn’t had much contact with her thus far—but then he realizes the – _sune_ suffix in _nogitsune_ can also be observed in _kitsune_. That’s certainly a lead, but it in no way explains why he’d also crossed out Derek and Scott’s names from the sticky note. Unfortunately, he needs to table the mystery for later in order to focus on his reading.

Following the nogitsune page, entries are logged much more regularly. It seems around the second year of owning the grimoire is when he returned to Deaton to learn more about his spark. Several pages express his frustration over failed attempts to master it, until a new entry about a month later finally proclaims, “ _All I needed to do was believe in myself and believe in the spark. ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?????_ ”

Stiles snickers to himself because that about sums up his current mood. He wishes he’d ignored Deaton’s initial orders and read his own entries first, though. This is literally the only answer he’d needed all along! But it’s not like Deaton could’ve known that.

Stiles continues perusing his entries and marvels at all the positively _wild_ adventures and creatures and magic he’s apparently tussled with at every twist and turn in Beacon Hills. He can scarcely believe the experiences he’s reading about are all his own. Buffy’s got nothing on him! However, he can’t help but wonder how he never came across anything remotely supernatural over the past two years when the grimoire—and the past week—makes it seem as though a person could trip over a werewolf in Beacon Hills without even trying.

Stiles thinks maybe the memory spell somehow steered him clear of the supernatural occurrences in town. But then he realizes that isn’t likely, considering Erica was at his side the whole time, and Peter frequented his shop as well.

“Thought I’d find you in here.”

Stiles startles a little and glances up from the grimoire in his lap to find Scott poking his head into the living room. “Hey, dude!” Stiles says, genuinely happy to see him. “Get dinner to your mom okay?”

“Yep. She says hi, by the way. She would’ve stopped by to see you already, but she’s been slammed picking up extra shifts at the hospital. Speaking of which, your dad’s probably not gonna be here for dinner either,” he notes with a faint frown on his lips. “I took him some dinner too cuz he and Parrish are working a double tonight. And Kira’s working the front desk, so she’s out as well.”

“You took my dad dinner?” Stiles asks, brow furrowed.

“Don’t worry. It wasn’t my cooking,” Scott replies with a laugh. “Derek’s usually the one who takes care of your dad, but he’s busy getting Chris today, and I was heading to the station anyway to see Kira.”

“I used to take him dinner a lot,” Stiles says, vaguely surprised he hasn’t phrased it as a question. “That’s what the sher—” He shakes his head and starts over. “That’s what Dad said he thought I was doing when I walked into the police station after I’d first lost my memories.”

“Yeah,” Scott replies, this time consolingly. “But don’t worry. The pack’s been looking after him. You can pick up right where you left off once you get your memories back.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Stiles says, voice filled with awe. Even though he can’t quite remember the bond he shared with his father, Stiles knows once he does, all the little things the pack did for him in his absence will be even more meaningful to him than they already are. How will he ever manage to express his gratitude properly?

“That’s what bros are for,” Scott says easily, and then he purses his lips to suppress a laugh. “Well, bros and packs and _mates_.”

Stiles squawks indignantly as Scott waggles his eyebrows suggestively because apparently they’re both still twelve-year-olds. Stiles understands he’s the only person in the pack who has _just_ discovered he and Derek are mates, but he’s still a little bashful about it, in spite of the fact he isn’t entirely sure what it means to be a werewolf’s mate. Is it simply another word for boyfriend, girlfriend, or partner? Or is there more to it? He ought to ask Derek about it, but he also wonders if it’s worth the ensuing conversation on the off chance things don’t go their way with lifting the memory spell.

“Shove over,” Scott says, and then he cheerfully wedges himself into the armchair with Stiles. His legs are draped at an angle over the armrest, and it’s a tight fit, though not necessarily uncomfortable. “Read anything good in there?”

Stiles adjusts the grimoire so it’s open across both their laps and says, “Sort of?” Scott scrunches up his nose in confusion, so Stiles adds, “Nothing about the memory spell, but I’ve only read through roughly one year of my entries, so I guess that makes sense. But I picked up a couple tips I think might be useful, so I guess that’s cool.”

“Totally.” Scott nods encouragingly. “Although,” he says, hesitating a moment, “I can’t figure out why you’re not just reading from the end.”

“The end?” Stiles echoes.

“Yeah. If there’s anything in there about the memory spell, it stands to reason you would’ve written about it around where your entries leave off,” Scott explains.

Stiles gapes at him, completely speechless. Because that’s a really good point. He’d been so consumed with collecting as much information as he could in order to learn how better to control his spark that he let it overtake his common sense.

“I know, it’s so stupid it’s genius,” Scott says, grinning proudly at his suggestion.

“Just genius,” Stiles amends, pawing through the pages until he lands on the last one where he recognizes his own handwriting. It features a short entry that takes up two lines—one of which is the date.

“ _Note to self_?” Scott reads aloud. For the first time, he sounds less than impressed with Stiles. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve written? That’s the very last entry?”

Stiles flips through the remaining blank pages that follow and examines them carefully, but he can’t spot a single drop of ink on any of them. “I guess so,” he declares, returning to his final entry.

“Don’t people usually follow something like ‘note to self’ with an actual note to oneself?” Scott asks, giving him a sidelong glance.

“Yeah. People are redundant like that, aren’t they?” Stiles mutters dubiously. “But at least I recorded the date,” he says, pointing at the top-right corner. “I wrote this two years ago, in July. Is that around when I lost my memories?”

Scott nods. “Should be. I remember it was summer.”

Stiles hums thoughtfully and flips back a page to skim through the previous entry, which mentions Stiles had been suffering from headaches, then includes a list of herbs Deaton evidently recommended ought to be ingested as a tea under his supervision. Scott silently reads the recipe as well and says, “You’re sure there isn’t even a follow-up addressing whether or not that tea works?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Scott reaches over and turns to the final entry. Then he flips the page back again to the tea recipe.

“What is it?” Stiles asks.

“You wrote the ‘note to self’ entry two months after the one about the headache tea remedy,” Scott says.

“It would appear so,” Stiles replies. “What of it?”

Scott doesn’t answer immediately. He drums his fingers on the page and looks doubtful. “The grimoire is sort of like a diary, right?” he asks, evidently deciding to come at things from a different angle.

“From what I’ve gathered,” Stiles says, specifically recalling Halina and Niko’s budding romance. “All the entries deal with my spark or magic in some way, but in order to establish context, you kinda have to write about what you’ve been up to, who you were with, and stuff like that.”

“Meaning you talk about the pack in your entries,” Scott infers.

“Yeah.” Stiles nods. “Extensively, actually. Probably in every other entry, at least.”

Scott leans back against the chair and folds his arms over his chest. “Don’t you find it strange you took the time to write about some headache remedy, yet you didn’t think to write about Erica and Boyd _coming back from the dead_?”

Stiles turns to look at him, stunned, because that _is_ strange. He recalls Erica had said she and Boyd came back about a month or so before he lost his memories.

“Two for two, Scotty.” Stiles isn’t sure what compels him to use the nickname, but it makes Scott smile. However, the expression falls from his face when Stiles lowers his voice and tentatively asks, “Do you think I did something to bring them back from the dead?”

“Who? Erica and Boyd?” Scott says, puzzled.

Stiles nods. “Lydia said she thinks dark magic was involved in their resurrections, and Deaton told me today that dark magic always comes at a price,” he explains. At Scott’s blank look, he lays it out more simply: “My memories in exchange for their lives.”

“But that’s dark magic,” Scott argues, refuting the theory instantly. “You wouldn’t do that.”

“Except you can’t know that,” Stiles counters. “Not even Erica and Boyd understand how they came back to life.”

“Fine. Let’s entertain for one second that you did bring them back,” Scott says. “Erica and Boyd are great and all, and I’m glad they’re here, but if you ever did want to raise the dead,” he pauses to gaze anxiously at Stiles, “then honestly, I think the first person you’d think to bring back is your mom.” Gently, he adds, “And she’s not here.”

Stiles swallows thickly, and it takes effort to tamp down on his emotions. But Scott’s right, and it’s enough to make him back off. Because if he ever had the chance to bring someone back from the dead, it would be his mother. No question about it.

“What about the nogitsune?” Stiles asks, abruptly changing topics.

Scott—big, strong, alpha—actually _flinches_ at the mere mention. “Uh, what?” he chokes out after a second.

Stiles thumbs through all the pages displaying his own handwriting, taking note of the dates scrawled atop each page. “The nogitsune,” he repeats, landing on the blank page with the green sticky note. “My entries are erratic leading up to this page before stopping completely for a few months. Aside from this nogitsune situation—whatever it was—the longest I’ve ever gone without adding a new entry in the grimoire is about one week,” he says, flipping back to the final entry. “There’s no way I suddenly stopped writing in here for two whole months leading up to my memory loss unless something really bad happened,” Stiles surmises. “So, what if it was the nogitsune— _again_?”

“What? No way,” Scott says, shaking his head, positively adamant in his denial. “ _No. Way_.”

“Seriously, is anyone ever going to tell me about the nogitsune?” Stiles demands, his frustration getting the best of him. It seems he’s the only person left who doesn’t actually understand why a nogitsune is so terrifying. “This is getting ridiculous. I’m tired of watching everyone else tip toe around the subject. Tell me what happened,” Stiles says, tone annoyed and impatient.

“I really don’t think I should,” Scott replies, his voice practically a whine. “It was really bad, dude.”

“You realize that doesn’t exactly assuage my concerns, right?” Stiles fires back. Scott fidgets uncomfortably and looks away, so Stiles continues. “Unless you have a better explanation as to why I didn’t add new entries in the grimoire during the final two months leading up to my memory loss, then you need to spill the beans. Now.”

Scott appears to struggle with keeping his mouth shut, but Stiles’ unimpressed stare wears him down. Reluctantly, he reveals, “A nogitsune is an evil fox spirit.”

“Fox spirit,” Stiles echoes, thoughtful for a moment. “Like Kira?”

“No,” Scott says firmly. “Kira’s a thunder kitsune. A nogitsune is just evil incarnate. It both creates and feeds off of chaos and strife and all things negative.”

Stiles flips through the grimoire until he arrives back at the empty page reserved for the nogitsune. “You’re keeping something from me,” he says, pointing to the page. “What you’re saying sounds awful, but not nearly bad enough for me to have kept this page blank for years.”

Scott looks conflicted now, and like he wishes he’d never indulged Stiles with any information regarding the nogitsune. After several false starts, he snaps his mouth shut and settles for not saying anything further.

Stiles’ anticipation might as well be a living thing inside his body, and he just barely manages to stay seated. “Scott, please,” he implores, his words striking an odd balance between calm and impassioned. “I need to know. It’s my history, and no one will tell me what it is.”

Scott visibly deflates, resigned to whatever may result from this conversation. “The nogitsune possesses people,” he says finally.

“And it possessed someone in the pack?” Stiles guesses.

Scott nods, and the puppy dog eyes he’s giving Stiles makes his stomach sink.

“It possessed _me_ ,” Stiles amends. It’s not a question.

Still, Scott nods as he gazes apprehensively at Stiles, like he’s waiting for some impending breakdown.

“What did I do?” Stiles asks with mounting dread.

“ _It_ ,” Scott corrects, regaining some of his composure. “You didn’t do anything. _It_ …did some awful things while wearing your face.” Before Stiles can open his mouth, Scott adds, “Please don’t ask me to tell you what kinds of awful things. I shouldn’t have even told you this much. You don’t need to dwell on this right now.”

Stiles gets the distinct feeling that isn’t the only reason Scott doesn’t want to elaborate, but Stiles respects his wishes and doesn’t press for details. He’s glad Scott finally told him _something_ , at least.

“The only other time I went months without writing entries in the grimoire is during this nogitsune incident,” Stiles says, circling back to his initial point. “You don’t think it came back, do you? And that’s why there aren’t any entries for the two months leading up to my memory loss?”

“No, we got rid of the nogitsune,” Scott says with conviction. “It’s gone, and we’ll never need to worry about it again.”

Stiles is surprised when he sighs in relief to this news. Even though Scott’s withheld the gory details—whatever they may be—it is a small measure of comfort to know there’s no way the nogitsune could come back.

Scott thumbs through the grimoire until they’re at Stiles’ last entry once again. “Hey,” he says, and there’s a little too much forced brightness in his voice, but Stiles can’t hold it against him. “You think someone ripped out a few pages, and that’s why it seems like we’re missing entries from your last two months?” Before Stiles can answer, Scott is already leaning forward to run his fingers carefully along the center of the open book. However, all the pages appear to be intact and undamaged.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Stiles says, sitting back is dismay.

“Maybe you removed the pages magically,” Scott suggests instead. “And that’s why it only appears as though pages haven’t been removed.”

“What would be the point of that?” Stiles asks. “Seems like overkill after I went to the trouble of cloaking the entire grimoire as well.”

Scott frowns but agrees. “True.”

“Besides, even if I removed the pages magically, I’m not sure I’d even know where I might’ve hidden them or how I ought to retrieve them.” A startled laugh escapes from his mouth, and Stiles adds, “If this is actually what happened, it’s such an awful metaphor for my missing memories.”

Scott thinks about that for a moment, then bursts out laughing as well, which only gets Stiles going again, too. It’s the silly sort of situation where they each fuel the other’s need for amusement until it no longer has anything to do with whatever had caused it in the first place, so there isn’t any hope in stopping it.

About a minute passes before Erica stands before them, baffled at the scene she’s encountered. As soon as Stiles notices she’s there, he scrambles to get both his hands on the grimoire and assures her, “I was reading, I swear.”

Scott instantly stifles his giggles, and though he doesn’t know Erica had strictly instructed Stiles to use his spare time before dinner to read, he automatically nods frantically in support as he says, “He was. He totally was.”

Stiles flashes a grateful smile at him, and Scott returns it in kind.

“I’m not _mad_ ,” Erica says, exasperated. “It’s…it’s actually really nice to hear you both laughing together like idiots again.”

“Aww,” Scott croons. He rests his head on Stiles’ shoulder and nuzzles there for a second. “I love it when we laugh like idiots, too.”

Erica rolls her eyes at the display, but there’s no hiding the fond little smile tucked in the corner of her mouth. “Let’s go, losers. Dinner’s ready.”

Stiles hesitates because he’s reluctant to leave the grimoire, given he and Scott have potentially discovered a brand new mystery to solve—on top of all the other ones that still remain.

“C’mon, bro. You’ve got to eat,” Scott insists, sensing his unease. “We’ll take another crack at it after dinner.”

Stiles runs a hand through his own hair and frowns because he can’t convince himself that he can afford to take a break at this point. “I’m already on a tight schedule. I’ve got a little over a day left before this serum stuff quits working, and I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to be doing,” he says miserably. “And now, instead of getting closer to solving anything, all we’ve managed to do is identify one more possible roadblock in front of an already deteriorating road system.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Erica interjects Stiles’ tirade by wildly waving her arms at him until he stops talking. “You were brimming with happiness when you got here, and now you’re a ball of angst. What happened?”

Stiles heaves a world-weary sigh in preparation to explain their theories regarding the two-month gap in entries, but Scott stops him by placing a commanding hand on his shoulder. “Dinner first,” he insists. And before Stiles can protest, he adds, “Bounce some ideas off the pack. I know you think you need to figure out everything on your own, but you have a pack now. Well,” he amends, “you’ve always had a pack. But you know about it again. Let us help you.”

The expression on Erica’s face softens, and she smiles encouragingly. “C’mon, Batman. I know you can’t resist a patented Scott McCall speech like that. Especially not when you’re out of practice.”

Stiles huffs out an incredulous little laugh, mildly stunned by how Scott’s plea has affected him. Truth be told, Stiles really isn’t very good at asking for help when he needs it, although that may have something to do with the memory spell that has had him convinced for the past two years that he’s grown up without the luxury of family or friends at his side.

“In spite of whatever tomato sauce atrocity Isaac’s managed to cook up, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hungry,” Stiles says finally.

“ _I heard that_!” Isaac shouts from the kitchen, which causes everyone to break out in giggles.

“I keep forgetting about werewolf hearing,” Stiles grouses.

“Sometimes, I forget about it, too,” Scott says in commiseration. Stiles finds that difficult to believe, but he appreciates the show of solidarity. He closes the grimoire and leaves it in the vacated armchair, then follows Scott and Erica to the kitchen.

“And don’t worry,” Erica whispers conspiratorially, “Isaac knows hardly anything about cooking, but there’s a reason he’s paired with Boyd when it’s his turn to make dinner.”

Isaac suddenly walks across their path, on his way to the dinner table, and mutters, “Heard _that_ , too.”

Erica cackles with glee. “Tell me it’s a lie,” she says, tone challenging.

“Like I’d ever give you the satisfaction,” Isaac retorts.

“Denial,” Erica remarks dismissively. “Very convincing.”

“Now, children. _Behave_ ,” Liam admonishes loftily from where he’s distributing silverware at the table.

Even Stiles can tell Liam is considerably younger than Erica and Isaac, so he isn’t surprised when they both scowl and turn their sights on him instead. From the enormous grin plastered on Liam’s face, however, it’s clear he enjoys the attention.

Stiles takes his usual seat at the table and notes with dismay that Derek hasn’t returned yet. While Erica, Isaac, and Liam squabble loudly, Scott helps Boyd quickly chop up a salad to go with their meal. Other than that, the only other members of the pack who have arrived for dinner are Lydia and Malia. Lydia is seated across from him with her nose buried inside a book, while Malia, seated on Lydia’s left, gazes intently at the pasta piled high on her plate, like it’s a struggle not to dig in before Scott and Boyd join them.

“It’s rude to stare,” Malia says harshly as her piercing brown eyes suddenly snap up to direct a flinty glare at Stiles.

He splutters, somewhat taken aback by her abrasiveness. “I wasn’t staring,” Stiles insists. He’d been looking— _observing_ —but definitely not outright staring. There’s totally a difference.

Malia’s eyes briefly flicker down to Stiles’ chest, then return to his face. “Hm.” She appears dubious yet curious. “Then what were you doing?”

Stiles rubs nervously at the nape of his neck as he comes to terms with what’s actually on his mind. “I can’t remember ever having dinner with this many people before,” he admits quietly.

Lydia surreptitiously lowers her book so she can listen to the conversation, and even Erica, Isaac, and Liam pause their bickering.

“You can’t remember a lot of things,” Malia points out rather bluntly. “Besides, you were here the other day, when practically the whole pack showed up for dinner.”

“I fainted before the food had even finished cooking. I don’t think that counts,” Stiles argues with a self-deprecating chuckle.

Malia takes a moment to consider his reply, then says, “I once spent eight years living as a coyote in the woods.”

Stiles blinks owlishly, unsure of how to respond, or how that has anything to do with the topic at hand. “Oh?”

Malia nods sagely and carries on. “I wasn’t sure about sharing meals with a pack at first either, but it’s not so bad,” she assures. “There are all kinds of unnecessary rules, and everything is always overcooked, and no one else ever craves deer when I do, but it’s…good,” she finishes, visibly pleased with her assessment. “Not the deer,” she clarifies after a moment. “Deer is the _best_. But what I meant to say is sharing meals with a pack is good. It’s different from being alone, but it’s better this way. You’ll see.”

Stiles smiles at her, genuinely touched by Malia’s attempt to offer him comfort and reassurance in her own way. He’s still reeling over her history, though, when Liam blurts out, “You realize eating alone in front of the TV for two years isn’t the same thing as living as a wild animal in the woods for eight, right?”

Erica and Isaac, seated at Liam’s sides, smack his arms as a means to reprimand him for the rude comment. “What?” he complains loudly, rubbing sorely at his biceps. “It’s true!”

Malia’s lips quirk ever so slightly into an amused smirk. “You’d think he was the one raised by wild animals.”

Lydia’s the first one to break, and they all follow her over in a fit of laughter. Scott and Boyd arrive with the salad shortly after that, sharing in the joke because werewolf hearing is a thing. Dinner is served, and Stiles makes it a point to compliment the tomato sauce because it’s surprisingly well seasoned and tasty, especially in light of what Stiles had witnessed upon first entering the kitchen. Isaac preens and ribs Erica for giving him a hard time, although Stiles suspects from Boyd’s quiet, fond smile in Isaac’s direction that Boyd deserves much of the credit for the sauce, too.

Once everyone is pleasantly full and has had their fill of spaghetti, Erica wipes at the corners of her mouth with a napkin and says, “So, spark stuff?” At the questioning glances from about half the table, she adds, “Stiles was at Deaton’s earlier. He has his spark back!”

The pack thrums excitedly with anticipation. “Technically, it never went anywhere. And I can only do simple stuff for now. But yeah,” Stiles confirms with a nod and a barely suppressed grin, “I got it under control.” With a confident flourish of his hands, he sends a stream of blue sparks out from the tips of his fingers and wills the spark to latch onto all the empty plates at the table. Within the blink of an eye, the plates vanish from their respective placemats and reappear stacked neatly atop one another at the center of the table.

Stiles hears a collective, appreciative gasp from the pack before he’s showered with exclamations of awe and praise.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Liam exclaims. “Think your spark can get ‘em washed, too? Because then you’d be my favorite person ever.”

Scott snickers at Liam. “Absence really does make the heart grow fonder,” he quips.

Stiles thinks seriously about whether or not he could accomplish what Liam’s asked. He could certainly relocate the stack of dirty dishes to the kitchen sink since he knows where that is, but he doesn’t think he could spontaneously clean them. “With what I know right now,” he tells Liam, “I think it’d be a Mickey Mouse in _Fantasia_ situation, and it would probably take just as long as it would to wash them by hand.”

Liam slouches in disappointment. “Bummer,” he grumbles, his reaction making it clear he’s on dish duty tonight.

“Did I used to wash dishes with my spark?” Stiles inquires.

“Well, no,” Liam stammers, which causes some of the pack to share a laugh at his expense. “But you could give it a try now,” he suggests brightly. “To get in some practice!”

“Just because he’s lost his memories doesn’t mean he’s an idiot,” Isaac snarks.

“I never said he was,” Liam says defensively. But when he realizes there’s no getting around it, he dejectedly collects the stack of dirty plates and marches into the kitchen, presumably to start cleaning them.

“Can you guys tell me some of the stuff I used to do with my spark?” Stiles asks everyone else remaining at the table. “Now that I’ve got a pretty good handle on my spark, I’d like to test it out. But the grimoire is huge, and the entries are all over the place, so it might help if you can suggest some directions for me to explore.”

“Well, you warded the pack house,” Scott says immediately. “I’m not sure exactly how you did it. I just remember you walked around the perimeter of the grounds for hours one day.”

“Er, what are wards supposed to do?” Stiles asks sheepishly.

“Oh. They prevent anyone who wishes us harm from setting foot on the property,” Scott explains. “Kinda like an invisible barrier that only lets certain people in or keeps certain people out.”

“Must be a neat trick when it comes time to hide Christmas presents,” Stiles jests.

“Don’t even,” Lydia warns. “You were absolutely incorrigible when you first learned how to create wards. You warded things that didn’t even need wards!”

“I will never forgive you for the fact that I _still_ can’t find the scarves I bought in France,” Isaac grouses.

“Evidently, whatever ward you created around the scarves was spelled in a way that would prevent _everyone_ from ever looking at them directly,” Erica adds helpfully. “And everyone includes you, so you couldn’t ever find the scarves yourself to lift the ward you’d set.”

Stiles can’t help but burst out laughing. “So, somewhere in the middle of this house is a giant pile of French scarves just sitting there, completely untouched?”

Isaac flashes some fang as he growls unhappily. Stiles grimaces and has the decency to look somewhat contrite as he says, “I suppose it’s not helpful to say sorry at this point?”

Isaac simply crosses his arms over his chest and responds with a withering glare.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Scott says, drawing attention to himself once more, “a lot of the stuff you did with your spark was defensive magic. Stuff that would keep us safe. You had a knack for it.”

“Defensive magic?” Stiles echoes with alarm. “Exactly how often are you guys attacked?”

“We’re not exactly _attacked_ all the time,” Scott hedges. “We don’t go looking for trouble either. It sort of just finds us.”

“Don’t make it seem as though it’s random,” Boyd chides, finally joining the conversation.

“Beacon Hills is literally a beacon for the supernatural,” Lydia clarifies for Stiles’ benefit. “The town draws in all kinds of creatures, both good and bad. Your defensive magic helps us stay safe while we ensure none of the creatures drawn to town intend to harm anyone.”

“I suppose it’s good I apparently have a knack for defensive magic, then,” Stiles says. “If I can figure out wards again. they’ll come in handy if my spark decides to turn into another random villain bent on murdering me.”

“Hang on,” Erica says, frowning with concern. “I thought you wouldn’t need to worry about that anymore since you’ve got control of your spark now.”

“That’s the one thing Deaton’s still confused about,” Stiles replies. “He says my lack of control explains the random outbursts we saw from my spark—like when I accidentally caused all the light bulbs in the bakery to explode. But he thinks those kinds of incidents are different from Kali and Jennifer because with those two occurrences, my spark manifested into something that was deliberately trying to cause me harm.”

Lydia hums thoughtfully and nods. “That’s been bothering me as well. It doesn’t make sense that your spark would try to hurt you,” she says. “If you die, it dies.”

“In that case,” Erica says, “does the spark trying to hurt Stiles mean he’s somehow subconsciously trying to hurt himself?” Another thought dawns on her, and she adds, “Is that why he wiped his memories?”

“I think we’re just jumping to conclusions now,” Scott says delicately. “We don’t even know for sure if something else isn’t causing Stiles’ spark to lash out at him. Let’s back up and try coming at things from a different angle,” he proposes. “Maybe we can’t figure out why Stiles’ spark is manifesting into former enemies because we’re missing other pertinent information.”

Stiles blows out a breath as he tries to tamp down on his mounting frustration. “I don’t know what else could be ‘pertinent.’ I’m the one who wiped my own memories. And the spark is a part of me,” Stiles points out. “It doesn’t seem as though an outside party could be involved in this,” he argues. “I’m the common denominator in all parts of this mess.”

“Not necessarily,” Lydia chimes in. “There are plenty of supernatural ways someone could’ve compelled you to do something you never would’ve done on your own.”

“But I’m the one who wiped my own memories,” Stiles repeats. “Deaton was pretty clear on that. I’m the one who initiated everything.”

Boyd shakes his head, having caught on to Lydia’s point. “What if someone compelled you to wipe your own memories?”

Scott frowns and says, “That just seems like you’re jumping to conclusions again. There’s no proof of that.”

“How _would_ we prove that?” Stiles asks instead.

“Spells and the like could point us in definitive directions,” Lydia says, “but past that, when someone uses heavy magic, they leave behind—”

“A magical residue,” Stiles cuts in, nodding along with Lydia. “Yeah, Deaton was just explaining it to me today. He told me the pack scoured the preserve for traces of foreign or dark magical energy after I first lost my memories, but no one found anything.”

Malia suddenly looks up, eyes bright with a new idea. “What if the place is warded?”

“Huh?” Scott says, confused.

Malia huffs out an annoyed little breath and starts over. “What if no one ever found magical residue because the place where Stiles lost his memories is warded?”

Everyone else at the table goes slack jawed because her first contribution to the discussion is the best explanation any of them have offered thus far. “Damn, girl,” Isaac crows as he exchanges a high-five with her.

“But we never found Isaac’s scarves,” Stiles mumbles despondently. “There’s no way to track or detect a ward, is there? I mean, that kinda defeats the purpose of wards.”

“Don’t despair,” Scott says brightly. “You’re our expert on wards. Not even Deaton knows how to create them properly. You actually taught yourself.”

“So?” Stiles says flatly, perplexed as to why Scott is suddenly so chipper. He hasn’t exactly proposed a viable plan of any sort.

Lydia rolls her eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t spin into orbit. “ _So_ ,” she says mockingly, “if you didn’t learn about wards from Deaton, then where else could you have learned about them?”

Stiles snaps his fingers, the answer coming to him in an instant. “The grimoire!” The moment the words leave his mouth, his spark crackles to life, and the grimoire materializes at the center of the table.

“Show off,” Isaac mutters under his breath.

Stiles ignores him as he hastily flips through his entries, searching for any relevant information regarding wards. “If I make it out of this all right, someone remind me to create a freakin’ table of contents for this thing,” he grumbles bitterly as he skims page after page as quickly as he’s able.

“Better yet, digitize it like the bestiary,” Boyd suggests.

“It’s a book, Scott. _A book_!” Lydia teases, in spite of the fact that Scott hasn’t even said anything. But when the remark somehow brings a happy chuckle out of Scott, Stiles idly realizes he’s missing out on some sort of inside joke.

Upon arriving at his last entry—the blank page with only “note to self” scrawled at the top—Stiles sits back in his chair and sighs, disheartened. “There’s nothing useful about wards in here,” he declares.

Erica doesn’t appear ready to believe that. “You only looked through a few pages,” she says.

“Well, yeah,” Stiles replies. “I looked through my entries. You guys said I taught myself.”

“I _know_ you’re not this thick,” Lydia snaps derisively. “If you learned about wards from the grimoire, it stands to reason you learned from someone else’s entries—not your own.”

Stiles groans as he faceplants into the grimoire. His voice is muffled as he shouts, “Dammit!”

“Maybe it’s time for another break,” Erica suggests gently.

Stiles sits upright again and says, “This _was_ the break.”

“ _Dinner_ was the break,” Scott argues. Then he gestures to the grimoire and says, “This was work. And now it’s time for another break.” When Stiles opens his mouth to protest, Scott adds in a warning tone, “You don’t want to burn out and fry your brain.”

There’s a pregnant pause for only a second before Scott and Stiles exchange a look and devolve into fits of laughter.

“Oh, my God,” Lydia says as she stares at them judgmentally. “That wasn’t even funny. You’re only missing some memories. Your brain isn’t even fried!” But clearly she’s alone in the sentiment, as everyone else at the table has joined in on the joke.

Boyd winks at her and says, “C’mon. It was a little funny.”

Lydia rolls her eyes as her face reluctantly breaks into a grin. “You’re both ridiculous,” she says to Stiles and Scott. “Two years apart, and you’re still on the same goofy wavelength.”

“Jealous?” Scott asks playfully once he regains his composure.

Lydia spares a moment to regard the two best friends. “Hopeful,” she amends.

If the stunned look on Scott’s face is any indication, he’d clearly been expecting a witty barb instead. “Aww,” he says, expression softening. “Our pack is the cutest.”

While they’re busy fawning over one another, the doorbell rings, and Liam shouts from the kitchen, “I’ll get it!”

“That must be Derek,” Stiles says, not even surprised with the way his heart rate kicks up a notch in excitement.

“Probably not,” Lydia says, gazing expectantly towards the front door. “He wouldn’t ring the doorbell to his own house.”

Scott’s face suddenly creases with worry as he sniffs at the air. “It’s Mason,” he murmurs, quickly getting up out of his chair.

They hear Liam in the foyer as he exclaims, “What are you doing here? You should’ve stayed home. You look awful!”

“I know. I’m sorry,” a strained voice replies just as Liam walks into the kitchen, supporting a clammy, dark-skinned young man who must be Mason.

“Sit down,” Scott says, immediately offering his own seat. Mason gratefully accepts.

“Stiles, this is Mason,” Liam introduces hastily, “and he totally has the flu. You should be in bed, dude!”

Mason shivers a little, even though he’s wearing a large winter coat. “I had to see Stiles,” he says with a brittle smile that borders on being a grimace.

“Er, hi,” Stiles stammers out awkwardly, unsure of how to respond, given this is the first time in recent memory he’s met the guy. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I have the flu?” Mason huffs out a breath. “Y’know, headache, chills, etcetera.”

“Actually, I think I might have something that could help with that,” Stiles says, much to everyone’s surprise. He flips through the grimoire until he arrives at the page with the headache remedy from Deaton. “Apparently, this tea is supposed to help with headaches,” he says, turning the grimoire towards Mason.

Lydia leans in and frowns as she silently reads the ingredients. “That’s not _tea_ ,” she scoffs, glancing back up at Stiles. “What kind of tea needs over two dozen ingredients?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember actually writing the recipe,” Stiles retorts. “It’s just in there! I only saw it because it’s the last proper entry.”

“Meanwhile, I’ll go boil some water so you can have some actual tea,” Erica murmurs, patting Mason’s shoulder as she walks past him and into the kitchen.

“Give it here,” Lydia says, heaving a put-upon sigh as Stiles hands her the grimoire. “Bacopa, ashwagandha, gotu kola, rhodiola rosea, periwinkle,” she reads down the list of ingredients.

“What the hell kind of tea is that supposed to be?” Isaac blurts out.

“I haven’t even heard of nearly half these ingredients,” Lydia says while she taps at her phone, presumably conducting some quick research on Google.

“I can’t even _pronounce_ half those ingredients,” Scott snarks.

“I guess we need to call Deaton?” Stiles says uncertainly.

But before anyone can agree with him, Lydia gasps, and the hand not holding her phone slams down onto the table. “Oh, my God! Oh, my _God_!” And then she’s silent a minute longer as she continues sliding her thumb across the phone’s screen, her lips moving quickly as she reads to herself.

“ _Lydia_ ,” Scott snaps impatiently. “What is it?”

She glances up, looking slightly dazed. “I need to do more research, but bacopa and gotu kola are used in Ayurvedic medicine.”

“Meaning?” Scott presses, echoing everyone else’s thoughts.

“Ayurvedic medicine is all about maintaining balance in the human body,” Lydia says excitedly. “And I haven’t looked up all the ingredients yet, but I did just look up bacopa and gotu kola.” She beams as she announces, “Both are known for traits that revitalize the human mind.”

“Holy shit,” Scott breathes out. He fishes out his own phone from his pocket and says, “We totally need to call Deaton.”

Stiles can scarcely believe his ears. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” he asks with trepidation.

Lydia bites her bottom lip anxiously. “We’ll need to see what Deaton thinks, of course, and we ought to do a bit more research as well,” she says, but there’s no mistaking the delight in her voice.

“But?” Stiles presses, needing to hear the words out loud.

Lydia beams, and it fills Stiles with hope. “I think this tea or potion or whatever it is will lift the block from your memories.”

Before Stiles can even respond, his spark erupts out of his fingers like mini fireworks, and then tiny wildflowers materialize everywhere they land on and around the kitchen table. “Ack!” he shrieks as he stumbles out of his chair because he’s laughing too hard from relief and joy. He tries to reel in his emotions but doesn’t have much success; the urgency simply isn’t there since he knows the spark is merely reacting to his unbridled happiness.

“I’m just gonna step outside for a minute,” Stiles says with a bright giggle, jutting his thumb back towards the door that leads onto the backyard porch. Even as he does so, more flowers rain down onto the tile floor.

He hears a chorus of laughter follow him out, and it’s a good five minutes before he’s able to calm down enough to reign in his spark. He staring at the heaps of wildflowers surrounding him, vaguely wondering if anyone in the pack has pollen allergies, when the door behind him opens to reveal Mason has joined him on the porch.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” Stiles says, turning to walk him back into the house.

“Sorry. I know,” Mason says miserably. He looks exhausted, and he’s even sweatier now than when he’d first arrived.

“You really don’t look well,” Stiles remarks. “I bet Erica’s done making your tea by now. C’mon,” he says, ushering Mason towards the door.

Mason ducks out of Stiles’ grasp. “I told Lydia I’d get her some periwinkle. It’s just over there,” he says, pointing forward. Stiles squints into the setting sun as he gazes across the open yard, but all he sees is a smattering of shrubs and flowers, and then a dense copse of trees.

Stiles shrugs his shoulders as he follows Mason towards the trees. “Periwinkle flowers are blue, right?”

Mason only nods. Stiles figures he must be the quiet type, which is fine. But Stiles is the type of person who finds it difficult to weather utter silence in another person’s presence.

“Y’know,” Stiles begins to ramble, “the only reason I know periwinkle flowers are blue is because I looked up the word when I read _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ because Hermione wears a periwinkle blue dress to the Yule Ball.” Stiles steals a sidelong glance at Mason, who doesn’t appear to be moved in the slightest by the anecdote. He switches gears and says, “So, you’re best friends with Liam, huh?”

Mason nods again, so Stiles resolves to ask a question that requires more than a yes or no response. “Derek told me you and Liam remind him of Scott and me, back when he first met us. If that’s true, does that make you Scott or Stiles?”

“Stiles,” Mason croaks out with some effort. He clutches at his throat and moves his mouth like he wants to say something more but can’t without irritating the sore throat that’s ostensibly accompanied his flu. Stiles is vaguely annoyed with Lydia for sending Mason on an errand when it looks like he’s barely managing to stay upright.

As they arrive at the end of the yard, marked by a wild thicket of bushes tumbling out of the forest, Stiles pauses as he searches for blue flowers. “Where’s the periwinkle?” he wonders aloud as he picks his way through the bushes and steps past the first few trees.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Mason suddenly cries out. Stiles whirls around just in time to see him crash onto his knees like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

“Mason!” Stiles shouts in alarm. He scrambles across the undergrowth and crouches on his haunches. “Talk to me,” Stiles urges, placing his hands on Mason’s shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

Mason reaches a trembling hand to rub at the nape of his own neck. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes once more, eyes trained on the ground. “I didn’t want to. I tried to stay away.”

Stiles leans in to fold down Mason’s jacket collar and examines what turns out to be some nasty looking gouges dug into the back of his neck. “Who did this to you?” Stiles demands.

Instead of answering him, Mason gasps and scrabbles backwards, shuffling a few feet away. His eyes go wide with terror as they hone in on something just past Stiles’ right shoulder. “Stiles,” he wheezes out. And then, in a voice much stronger than anything he’s managed all day, he shouts, “Stiles, run!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That certainly escalated! ;)
> 
> Also, the fate of Isaac's scarves is probably my favorite silly detail from this entire fic. The thought of everyone oddly stumbling on the same, seemingly random step or taking strange, winding paths along an otherwise straight hallway because they're avoiding an invisible pile of French scarves is just so ridiculous and funny to me. :P


	15. Chapter 15

Stiles doesn’t run—on principle (when he can help it), but also, at the moment. Despite the raw fear laced through Mason’s words, Stiles doesn’t heed his command because he has no plans to leave him here alone. Thus, mustering up all his courage, Stiles slowly turns on his heel to face… _his own face_.

Stiles blinks hard as he gapes at his very own doppelgänger. Except this isn’t like looking at a picture or staring into a mirror. The figure that stands before him is both familiar and impossible. He’s wearing a plaid shirt and jeans, just like Stiles, except it appears as though all the color has been sucked out of the garments. He’s unnaturally pale, which makes the shadows lining his eyes stand out in stark contrast. None of that would come across as immediately threatening if it weren’t for the faintest swirls of black smoke spiraling up off his shoulders and dark hair.

“Holy God!” Stiles blurts out, unable to come to terms with what he’s seeing.

“Not even close,” the doppelgänger drawls. His cracked, dry lips stretch across his face to form a sinister smirk. “Try again.”

“What?” Stiles yelps as he scrambles to his feet. “What is this? Who are you?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten,” the doppelgänger chides, feigning offense. Then he appears to think for a moment before he snaps his fingers, as though an idea has come to him. “Does the word _nogitsune_ mean anything to you?”

Stiles shakes his head in horror, panic clawing in his gut. “You can’t be,” he insists. “You’re not—”

“Real?” The nogitsune offers him a condescending downturned smile, clearly amused by Stiles’ disbelief. Without another moment of hesitation, he thrusts the palm of his hand out, and a jagged trail of blue spark energy rips through the air and zaps Mason hard enough to knock him several feet back into the yard. He doesn’t get back up.

“No!” Stiles cries out. On instinct, he turns to bolt towards Mason, but he never makes it past the trees because something wraps around Stiles’ ankles and sends him sprawling to the ground. He quickly flips onto his back, shocked to find the nogitsune has created some kind of lasso using the spark. By the time it begins slowly to fade from around his legs, the nogitsune looms over him imposingly.

“Don’t worry about Mason,” he says with a sneer. “He’ll be fine. You on the other hand?” The dark chuckle that follows sets Stiles’ teeth on edge. “I’ve been waiting a long time to do this—”

The nogitsune abruptly cuts himself off as he flings himself to the left to avoid the crackling ball of spark energy that Stiles has fired exactly where his head had been mere seconds ago. Stiles climbs back to his feet, arms raised and hands glowing slightly blue, ready to attack. “You were saying?”

The nogitsune cocks an eyebrow, clearly impressed. He backs further into the forest as he curls a finger and beckons Stiles towards him. “Well, don’t leave me hanging,” he says, sounding positively thrilled.

With a growly war cry that would make any werewolf proud, Stiles launches another ball of spark energy at the nogitsune, but the creature dodges the instant it leaves Stiles’ fingers, and the spark hits a tree and fizzles out of existence.

“Surely you can do better than that,” the nogitsune jeers as he answers with at least five shots of his own. Stiles dives to the ground to avoid them and rolls back to his feet as quickly as he’s able. He tries to attack again, but the nogitsune is simply too fast. He always manages to get out of the way before Stiles’ efforts ever have a chance of causing any damage.

Stiles fires another two shots at the nogitsune, and while the creature focuses on jerking away from the assault, Stiles ducks behind a tree to catch his breath and consider his options. The nogitsune is somehow better at this than he is, and Stiles can feel he’ll tire out first; his energy is waning already. But he’s never had any delusions of being a skilled fighter. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d thought all he’d need to do is hold off the nogitsune long enough for the pack to hear the commotion and come to his rescue. But he realizes with utter dread that no one is coming. The pack house is no longer in sight, but there’s no way Stiles has strayed far enough to escape impeccable werewolf hearing. And what about the pack bond? Stiles is nothing short of terrified right now, and the pack ought to be able to feel that.

If help was coming, it would have arrived by now.

Stiles is on his own.

The nogitsune blasts a giant chunk of bark off the tree Stiles is leaning against, and he shrieks and hunches down, desperately wracking his brain for some kind of strategy.

“I can hear you huffing and puffing back there,” the nogitsune says, snickering quietly to himself. “You’ll never win this. I know everything you’re thinking. _I am you_.”

Stiles purses his lips to stop himself from responding to the taunt, then peeks out from behind the tree. He spares only a second to find his target, then sends out a crackling stream of spark energy from his hand.

The nogitsune stares incredulously as the attack sails over his head and hits a branch several feet above where he stands. “You missed!” he crows with glee.

But for once, Stiles knows his aim is true. The tree creaks and groans, and the large branch he’d hit snaps off the tree and slams straight down onto the nogitsune. Stiles jogs over to where the creature is pinned beneath the branch, struggling futilely to free himself from the compromising position.

“You’re not me,” Stiles grinds out between clenched teeth. Then he launches one last blue orb of spark energy straight at the nogitsune, which engulfs the creature before causing it to vanish completely. “And you’re not real,” Stiles declares to the empty clearing, feeling an immense sense of satisfaction at having dealt with this on his own.

Stiles leans a hand against the tree and takes a moment to breathe. Then he turns, fully intending to check on Mason, and then see what’s up with the pack.

Except the nogitsune is standing in his way.

“I just—” Stiles shuffles backwards in surprise and trips over the very branch that had just saved him. He lands hard on his back and does an awkward crab walk until he can scramble onto his feet again. “I just killed you!”

“Did you, though?” The nogitsune contests, delighting in Stiles’ frustration. “Let me show you how it’s done.” He spreads his hands in front of him, palms facing skyward, as spark energy rushes out of his fingers and latches onto hundreds of tiny points on trees and rocks all around them.

Stiles shouts as another branch breaks off a nearby tree and crashes just inches in front of him. But before he can dwell on it, yet another branch cracks free and careens towards the ground. Within seconds, the air is filled with branches, leaves, and debris, and Stiles throws his arms up around his head as he dashes wildly through the preserve in search of safety. But he finds none.

The nogitsune’s energy and determination is endless in his pursuit, and it’s not long before Stiles jerks the wrong direction, slips across some leaves, and tumbles to the ground. Stiles recovers as quickly as he can, but he only gets to his hands and knees when he spots the nogitsune uprooting an entire sequoia tree before sending it falling in Stiles’ direction.

“Shit!” Stiles shrieks as he flips onto his back. He pushes his palms up as if to catch the heavy tree in his hands but instead uses his spark to stop it from crushing him to death. He thinks for one terrifying second that this had been a disastrous idea when the tree only continues its downward descent, but finally, it appears to freeze about six inches from Stiles’ hands and an extra couple inches from his face. A steady stream of spark energy keeps it there.

The preserve goes impossibly quiet after all the noise the nogitsune created slowly fades away. The ground crunches beneath his shoes as he approaches Stiles and peers down at him over the tree. “How long do you think you’ll be able to hold that up?”

Stiles strains against the weight of the tree, wishing he could find the strength to push it through the nogitsune’s stupid, smug face. As it is, he only manages to lift it up a fraction of a centimeter, but it’s enough to crack the nogitsune’s cocky façade.

“Let me help you,” he says, then proceeds to lean against the tree, pushing it closer and closer to Stiles’ palms.

Stiles whimpers as feels the spark press painfully back into his hands, barely a match for the tree and the nogitsune’s added weight. A mere inch or two separates Stiles’ hands from the bark of the tree now, but the gap is closing quickly. “Stop!” he cries out, desperate to survive.

“You stop,” the nogitsune replies. “Can you stop me?”

Stiles knows the answer to that question, and he doesn’t like it. He’s sweating profusely, and his hands are trembling with the effort to keep the tree where it is. He doesn’t think he’ll last much longer.

In a final attempt to distract the nogitsune, Stiles kicks out his legs in hopes he’ll hit something. He doesn’t, though the nogitsune jumps out of the way, which causes him to lift his weight off the tree for a second. Stiles is able to raise the tree another couple inches away from him, but then the nogitsune notices what he’s doing.

“Can’t have that,” the nogitsune chirps cheerfully, then hops onto the tree and sits there.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Stiles chants as the tree steadily falls onto him. His palms are quaking against the bark now, and Stiles wouldn’t even think his spark was doing anything if not for the fact that he knows he doesn’t possess enough strength to actually hold up an entire tree.

The nogitsune starts bouncing where he sits, doing his all to crush Stiles under the tree. Stiles bites back a curse as he turns his head away to avoid scratching the tip of his nose against the bark.

“What will your pack think when they find your mangled remains out here?” the nogitsune wonders aloud.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut as tears finally roll across his nose and down the side of his face. He feels the tree bark _just_ brush against his cheek when a deafening roar fills the air. Footsteps rapidly approach them, but Stiles can’t see who it is since his face is turned in the opposite direction. The footsteps suddenly stop, and a second later, the nogitsune’s weight is gone from on top of the tree. Stiles is able to push it a few more inches away just as the nogitsune and _Derek_ slam to the ground in front of his eyes. They each recover quickly and proceed to fight, but Stiles doesn’t pay attention to them.

With monumental effort, Stiles digs deep and forces another stream of spark energy to push against the tree, finally lifting it enough to have it land heavily to his side. Miraculously, he’s uninjured, but he feels totally drained and has trouble staying on his feet without swaying. But he can’t check out just yet; Derek is still fighting, and Stiles needs to be available to help any way he can.

Luckily, Derek appears to be holding his own just fine. The nogitsune uses the spark like a weapon, but Derek is quick on his feet and patient enough to dodge attack after attack until he finds good opportunities to swipe at the nogitsune with his claws.

Neither has hit the other yet. Stiles is brainstorming ideas for how to trap the nogitsune since he apparently can’t kill it when he hears his own voice cry out in pain. Stiles looks up sharply to discover Derek has his claws buried deep within the nogitsune’s stomach. He yanks his hand up and away, and the nogitsune staggers backwards, then fizzles out of existence while crumpling to the ground.

Derek sighs in relief and straightens as though he means to walk over to Stiles. But before he manages to take a single step, the nogitsune materializes right behind him.

“Derek, watch out!” Stiles screams.

Derek is only able to look over his shoulder before the nogitsune is draped over his back. “That wasn’t very nice,” the nogitsune snarls. Then, lightning fast, he grabs one of Derek’s hands and uses Derek’s own claws to rip out his throat.

Stiles watches helplessly in absolute horror as Derek’s eyes widen with shock, hands scrabbling ineffectually at his own shredded neck, before the nogitsune shoves him to the ground, where he lands on his side with a pained grunt.

Stiles doesn’t know where he finds the strength, but he marches towards the nogitsune, legs strong as they carry him forward, and fires shot after shot at the nogitsune. It only takes three before he finds his mark, and the nogitsune vanishes from the clearing. Stiles doesn’t know how long before it’s back, but he can only deal with one problem at a time.

He rushes to Derek’s side, carefully rolls him onto his back, and is stunned to discover Derek’s pressing his own hands against his bloody neck. “Oh, my God. Derek!” Stiles cries out, uncertain as to how he can help. “You can heal, right?” he asks, glancing away as his eyes search wildly for the nogitsune. Still gone, thankfully.

Derek groans, straining himself because he’s trying to speak. Then his eyes go wide with panic as he coughs up blood, and Stiles realizes there’s no way Derek’s body can heal itself before he bleeds out.

“I know this is a big ask, but please trust me,” Stiles implores as he gently pries Derek’s hands away from his ruined neck. Derek gazes intently at him until his throat makes a gurgling sound and he coughs up more blood.

Without further ado, Stiles carefully holds his own hand a few inches from Derek’s throat, then aims his spark energy at the open wound. Derek whimpers at the contact from his spark, but the bleeding doesn’t appear as bad now. “Your hands weren’t applying enough pressure,” Stiles explains a little breathlessly. “I’m using my spark to staunch the bleeding long enough for your werewolf healing mojo to kick in.”

Derek can’t say anything, of course, but Stiles feels confident it’s working when Derek finds the strength a minute later to move a hand to Stiles’ knee and give it a weak squeeze.

The nogitsune’s voice suddenly floats through the clearing, making both Stiles and Derek jolt. “This is sweet,” he notes with a menacing laugh. Stiles keeps his spark aimed steadily at Derek’s neck while he raises his free hand, ready to fire off an attack the second the nogitsune shows itself.

“So much chaos. So much pain,” the nogitsune observes with a forced air of casualness. “A bit too much hope, though.” And with that, the nogitsune darts out from behind a tree, and Stiles immediately blasts him into the ether—or wherever it is the creature goes every time Stiles has managed to kill it.

“Is this guy possessing a cockroach or something?” Stiles mutters incredulously.

He doesn’t expect Derek to answer, so Stiles startles when Derek’s hand tightly squeezes the wrist aimed at his neck. Before Stiles can wonder what’s wrong, he hears the nogitsune breathe right over his shoulder. “I’m beginning to worry you don’t like me very much,” he says, sneering derisively when Stiles scrambles away so he’s positioned behind Derek’s head.

Stiles tries to zap the nogitsune just as quickly as last time, but his spark misses the shot entirely as his attention is divided between keeping pressure on Derek’s wound and defending them both.

“Why can’t you just die?” Stiles wails angrily. He tries to fire off another crackling burst of spark energy, but the nogitsune beats him to it by aiming the spark straight at Stiles’ hand. Stiles shouts in pain as the hit knocks him onto his back.

Derek’s limbs flail out all of the sudden, and then his hands reach desperately for his own throat. Stiles gasps aloud as he realizes his spark is no longer holding Derek’s wound closed. “Oh, no!” Stiles cries out. He attempts to crawl back to Derek, but the nogitsune blasts the ground right in Stiles’ path, then steps in his way.

“Let me save him!” Stiles begs as he gazes pleadingly at the monster towering over him.

The nogitsune stares down at him like he’s an insect, and Stiles is certain this isn’t going to end well for anyone.

Just as the nogitsune’s hands take on that familiar blue glow, Stiles frantically thinks back to something the nogitsune had said earlier. “You’re me, right?” Stiles reasons, using the nogitsune’s own logic. “If you’re me, then you should want to save him, too.”

The nogitsune falters, and the spark recedes back into his palms. He regards Derek for a moment—Derek, who is wheezing and struggling to breathe and stay alive. “I’m you,” the nogitsune repeats, suddenly somehow conflicted about this revelation.

“That’s right,” Stiles says, nodding enthusiastically. He has no idea what’s going on now, but he runs with it. “I’m you, and you’re me,” Stiles says, slowly edging past the nogitsune.

“You’re me,” the nogitsune echoes, like the idea is only now registering.

Stiles makes a noncommittal noise, fully focused on making it back to Derek’s side. But then the nogitsune _flickers_. Stiles only notices in his peripheral vision, but there’s no mistaking it. One moment, the nogitsune is there, and then it vanishes for just one second before reappearing.

Stiles’ curiosity gets the best of him, and he opens his mouth to express concern for some bizarre reason, but then he realizes he’s not entirely sure how to address the magic-based nightmare that’s been trying its hardest to kill him.

“If you’re me,” the nogitsune continues, “then I—” He flickers out again, and Stiles definitely sees it this time. Finally, the nogitsune declares, “You need to save him.” As the words leave his mouth, the edges of the nogitsune’s body begin to glow blue, and Stiles swears the creature is slowly vanishing. But Stiles will never know if that’s what was happening because all of the sudden, yet another furious roar thunders across the clearing, right before fully extended werewolf claws slice straight through the nogitsune’s wavering form.

“Holy shit!” Stiles shrieks, rearing back in alarm. His savior is a man Stiles has never seen before: dark blond hair, sharp blue eyes, attractive. But there isn’t time for a meet-and-greet. Stiles ignores the newcomer entirely as he scrambles the rest of the way to Derek’s side. Derek’s eyes are barely open, he’s clammy and pale, but remarkably, he’s still alive. “Oh, thank God,” Stiles breathes out in relief. Then he closes his eyes to concentrate so he can send his spark forward to staunch the bleeding once more.

When he blinks his eyes open, the world appears to tilt, and he nearly topples over before catching himself with his free hand. He’s a little lightheaded after the extended use of his spark.

Derek moans a little in distress, but Stiles shushes him and whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m here now.” That has the desired effect; Derek closes his eyes and relaxes against the hand Stiles places over his cheek.

The newcomer takes a couple steps forward, approaching slowly. “Stiles?” he calls, a disarming half-smile on his face.

“If you’re here to kill me too, can I at least have a second to catch my breath?” Stiles says, only half joking. He’s exhausted and a little dizzy, and he could do with about a week’s worth of sleep.

“Wow. You really don’t remember me,” the newcomer says in wonder.

“Yes. Shocking that losing my memories means I’ve _lost my memories_ ,” Stiles snaps. Then he sighs, instantly regretting the snark. “Sorry. That was rude and uncalled for.” He rubs his free hand across his own forehead and thinks back to what he knows. “You must be Chris, right?” When Stiles is rewarded with a smile, he says, “Thanks for the assist, man. But keep your guard up. Just in case.”

“Noted,” Chris replies. He sidles up a bit closer and asks, “Is Derek going to be all right?”

“I think so,” Stiles says, the effort to talk and keep the spark focused making his hand tremble the slightest bit. “I wish I could fix the wound on my own instead of waiting for Derek’s body to heal itself, but I guess I shouldn’t risk causing even more damage.”

“You’d be surprised what you’re capable of doing with your spark,” Chris states knowingly.

Stiles has a charming, self-deprecating remark poised at the tip of his tongue when Derek hums a little and opens his eyes again. He’s looking better now, but the wound is nowhere near closed up yet.

“Hey, big guy,” Stiles says, smiling fondly down at Derek. “You’re doing so well. Shouldn’t be much longer. And look!” Stiles leans back a little so Chris can wave. “Chris is here! Totally saved our butts, I might add.”

Stiles expects the news to bring Derek comfort, but he goes tense all over when his eyes land on Chris. Derek struggles to move his body, but he’s far too weak to manage it.

“Derek, stop that. You’re going to hurt yourself,” Stiles admonishes, doing his best to hold him still without causing further pain.

But Derek’s now taken to shaking his head frantically, eyes laser-focused on Chris. “Ngh!” is the only sound he accomplishes gasping out.

Stiles’ breath catches as he slowly turns around. Chris stares back at him with a cocky smirk, like he’s waiting for Stiles to realize he’s been the butt of the joke this entire time.

Heart hammering away in his chest, Stiles whispers, “You’re not Chris, are you?”

“Nope.”

Then a hand violently slams Stiles’ head against the nearest tree.

And then everything goes terrifyingly black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffhanger. Oops! <3


	16. Chapter 16

The chattering of his own teeth is what jerks Stiles back to wakefulness. He’s freezing—quite literally—because it turns out someone has locked him inside the walk-in freezer at his own bakery. Clad only in a plaid shirt, jeans, and sneakers, the cold is rapidly settling in his bones.

A single emergency light illuminates the space, but it’s so dim that the corners of the freezer remain cloaked in darkness. Stiles is slumped against the wall furthest from the door, and someone has cuffed his hands behind his back. His head throbs in pain, and the skin on the right side of his face pulls tight against dried blood. Stiles instinctively tries to lift a hand to prod gently at the wound on his temple, but he can’t, of course. However, the movement causes him to discover the chain linking his handcuffs isn’t connected to anything else, so with a little fidgeting and creative maneuvering, Stiles slides the handcuffs under his butt and legs in order to bring his arms in front of him.

“Overkill much?” Stiles can’t help but mutter aloud when he gets a good look at the cuffs. They’re heavy iron mitts that cover his hands entirely and do nothing to protect him from the bitterly cold air. Stiles tests their strength by attempting to push his spark outwards in hopes of breaking through the restraints, but all that happens is Stiles’ vision goes fuzzy, which only accomplishes exacerbating his persistent headache. He’s not sure if the manacles are somehow inhibiting his spark, or if he’s simply too drained after fighting the nogitsune—

Stiles’ eyes fly wide open. “Derek!”

Without another thought, Stiles scrambles onto wobbly legs, limbs sore from the cold, and rushes to the door. The benefit of being locked inside his own walk-in freezer is that he knows everything about it—including the fact that the door contains a safety release handle.

On reflex, Stiles lifts his manacled hands to grab at the handle, but the iron mitts are way too large and bulky to fit in the small space between the handle and door. It doesn’t matter, though. All Stiles needs to do is apply a little downward pressure to the safety release handle, and then lean against the door to push it open.

But because this really isn’t his day, the handle won’t budge. “Oh, come on,” Stiles moans, desperately bearing down on the handle in hopes that he merely needs to apply more pressure. “You can’t be _stuck_. Open, dammit!”

Against all reason, the freezer door suddenly eases open, though Stiles is certain it’s not because he was able to move the safety release handle. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, so he rushes forward. Unfortunately, before he’s moved more than a step, a hand reaches through the opening and shoves him hard. Stiles loses his footing and falls to the ground, and by the time he recovers, he’s staring up at the mystery guy from the preserve.

“Who are you?” Stiles demands angrily. He surreptitiously surveys the freezer for a weapon of any kind but comes up short. The wall opposite the door contains shelving where he stores ice cream cakes and perishable foods like fruits, blocks of butter, and heavy cream. Frozen as they are, any of those items might make a good blunt object, but with his hands restrained, Stiles isn’t sure how he could take advantage of them.

The mystery guy takes a look at how Stiles is cornered and chuckles. “Amazing. I still can’t believe you don’t remember anything. Kind of stupid on your part with the memory spell.” Then he shuts the freezer door, effectively trapping them both inside.

“You wanna talk about stupid?” Stiles sneers derisively. “The safety release handle doesn’t work. You just locked yourself in here with me.” He feels rather victorious pointing this out, in spite of the fact it doesn’t actually help him the slightest.

The guy’s eyebrows rise in mock surprise, then he easily twists the handle and opens the door once more. “Oh, you mean this safety release handle?” Then he shuts the door again. “I suppose you just need to have the right touch.” And when he turns back around, Stiles gapes at the faint blue glow in the guy’s hands.

“What the hell!” Stiles shouts. The door works perfectly fine, and there’s no reason for him to spend another second trapped inside this metal prison. He climbs back to his feet and says, “Let me go right now.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the guy says, shrugging his shoulders like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Stiles purses his lips together and tries to tamp down on his mounting panic. “At least tell me who you are. What do you want with me?”

The guy heaves a put-upon sigh and says, “I’m Theo, which you would still know if you hadn’t been so rash with that memory spell of yours.”

“Theo?” Stiles echoes, ignoring for the moment whatever Theo might know about his memories. “What do you want? Why did you—” Stiles stops himself, suddenly not caring about his immediate questions and skipping straight to the most important one. “Is Derek okay?”

“That brute?” Theo sniffs. “How should I know?”

Stiles growls as he charges at Theo and slams him against the opposite wall. The walk-in freezer isn’t large, so it seems to take Theo by surprise, but Stiles is annoyed to note the amused glint doesn’t fade from his eyes “Do not test me,” Stiles snarls in a quiet, dangerous tone. “If you’ve done anything that’s caused harm to my pack, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Theo interjects, voice suddenly harsh and not at all casual like it had been moments earlier. “You’ll attack me with your _spark_?” Theo rolls his eyes, and without warning, he claps his palms against Stiles’ chest and zaps him with spark energy, sending Stiles reeling back against the shelving on the wall behind him.

The blow smarts and will probably bruise. Breathing hard, Stiles scrambles back to his feet, wincing when he notices the metal shelf he collided with sliced through his shirt and into his right hip.

“I didn’t want to have to hurt you,” Theo says as though he actually cares about Stiles’ well being. “You’ve always been my favorite, after all.”

“Big deal. You have a spark, too,” Stiles retorts. Then he raises the iron mitts and says, “The only way you’ll fight me is while I’ve got these on. Doesn’t seem very fair.”

“I’m not here to fight you,” Theo says, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “I’m here to see you die.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Stiles swallows nervously, somewhat taken aback by Theo’s direct approach. “You should know I’ve got a pack of werewolves constantly on my heels. Good luck with whatever you’re planning,” he says, keeping his voice steady and calm, “but it’ll only end with your intestines being turned into werewolf jewelry.”

Theo’s lip curls at the macabre imagery. “Where is your so-called pack now?” he asks, grinning smugly. “Where were they when I took you?”

Stiles works hard to keep the emotion off his face because he’s been wondering the exact same thing. Still, he’s confident as he promises, “They’ll be here.”

“Yes, to collect your body,” Theo says grimly.

Stiles bristles as he demands once more, “What do you want from me? If all you wanted to do was kill me, you could’ve done that in the preserve when—” Stiles pauses as he recalls Theo’s claws slashing through the nogitsune’s body. “You’re not a spark,” he says abruptly, not caring that his train of thought doesn’t make sense. “You can’t be. I saw your claws. You’re a werewolf!”

“I’m neither, actually,” Theo says bitterly. “Your pack put me in the ground, then pulled me back out when it pleased them. That has _consequences_.”

“Put you in the ground?” Stiles echoes. Then his breath catches as he says, “You’re not real. You’re dead, aren’t you?”

Theo barks out a laugh that catches Stiles off guard. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh,” he says, making a show of reeling in his amusement. “I suppose it’s my fault you would think that, given I’m the one who’s been sending all those shadows after you.”

“Shadows?” Stiles blanches in shock as things start falling into place. “Kali, Jennifer, and the nogitsune,” he lists off. “That was you?”

“Correction: that was _you_ ,” Theo says. When Stiles shakes his head in denial, Theo adds, “You might say I’ve been hijacking your spark.”

“What?” Stiles says, confused beyond reason. “How is that possible?”

“Honestly, it’s such a pain speaking with you in this state. You don’t know _anything_ ,” Theo remarks with disgust. “Do you at least know by now what enhances your spark? Do you understand why your ancestors settled here?”

Stiles stares at him blankly.

“The Nemeton!” Theo screams, clearly angry he’s having to explain everything.

Stiles thinks back to when he learned Erica and Boyd were resurrected and replays what Lydia had briefly mentioned about the Nemeton. “It’s an ancient tree stump, right?”

“If you want to be crude about it, yes,” Theo replies. “I’m linked to it as well, thanks to your damned pack.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks.

“They put me in the ground, Stiles!” Theo yells in outrage.

Stiles flinches at the outburst. “But you seem okay.” He grimaces, deliberately not pointing out all the ways in which Theo is _so_ not okay. “You look alive to me,” he amends. “I don’t understand.”

“Color me surprised, you don’t understand,” Theo deadpans. Then he bites out, “I’m only alive because of the Nemeton. I should be dead.”

“But that’s good, isn’t it? You’re alive,” Stiles states, suppressing a shiver both from the cold and his nerves.

Theo scoffs. “You try having your life force linked for eternity to a goddamn tree stump!”

Yeah, Stiles is definitely not trying that any time soon.

“Okay, but how do I play into all of this?” Stiles says, doing his best to adopt a placating tone. As long as he’s hampered by the iron mitts, Theo’s the one with the upper hand. “Just tell me what you want. Maybe I can help you.”

“The last time I needed your help, you wiped your own memories,” Theo says brusquely. “This time, I won’t bother asking. I’ll take what I need.”

Stiles gets the distinct feeling Theo probably didn’t ask very nicely, but he keeps that hunch to himself. “And what is it you need?” he says instead.

“Your spark, you idiot,” Theo snaps. “What do you think all of this has been about?”

“That’s why Kali and Jennifer and—” Stiles shakes his head as he tries to make sense of everything. “You’ve been trying to get my spark this whole time?”

“Obviously,” Theo says with disdain.

“But that won’t work.” Stiles can’t help but point out the flaw in his plan. “If I die, the spark dies with me. No one can take it from me.”

Theo smirks triumphantly. “I can’t kill you to take it, but you see, we’re linked now, thanks to the Nemeton. If you happen to—oh, I don’t know—freeze to death while locked away inside a walk-in freezer? Well, then the spark will pass to me and be under my control completely.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Stiles insists, unwilling to believe the one safety net his spark provided him is now worthless. “We’re not _linked_ ,” he goes on. “Surely I’d be able to feel something like that.”

Theo responds by conjuring up a ball of spark energy in his palm, then blasting it at the temperature controls near the door. Stiles shudders involuntarily with the knowledge that the freezer will only grow colder now.

Theo turns and says, “If we aren’t linked, how is it I’m using your spark?”

Stiles doesn’t have an answer for that. Instead, he asks, “What makes you so sure having full control of my spark would help you?”

“For starters, I could do much more than the parlor tricks I’ve managed so far,” Theo says. Stiles can’t even fathom what that means if conjuring up entire people like Kali, Jennifer, and the nogitsune is considered a ‘parlor trick.’ “But if you must know,” Theo continues, “I plan to use your spark to sever my connection to the Nemeton.”

“You’re going to sever your connection to the Nemeton using a spark that’s also somehow connected to the Nemeton?” Stiles says incredulously. “The same Nemeton that’s apparently keeping you alive?!” He scoffs. “Sure. Seems like a solid plan.”

Theo’s fists clench and unclench, like he’s fighting off the urge to strangle Stiles. “You don’t even deserve to have a spark. You have no idea the power you harness. It’s wasted on you.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Look, can’t _I_ just sever your connection or whatever?” he suggests reasonably. “Then we both get out of this alive. How about that?”

“You’re not listening, Stiles,” Theo chides. “The last time I tried this, you wiped your memories in a rage. Forgot all about your spark, erased your precious pack from your brain, condemned what I wanted to do.”

“I’m lost. Why would I wipe my memories if I just didn’t like your idea?” Stiles wonders aloud. “What happened last time?”

“Your friends. Erica and Boyd,” Theo says, practically spitting out their names. “I brought them back to life, and you didn’t appreciate my doing so.”

Stiles’ mouth falls open in shock. “ _What_? That was _you_?”

“That was your spark,” Theo amends. “I was able to use your spark to raise them from the dead. No strings attached.”

“But that’s dark magic,” Stiles says before he can stop himself. He thinks back to all he’s learned about magic and what Theo has told him thus far. “Dark magic always comes with a price.”

“Everyone knows that, Stiles,” Theo snaps impatiently. “I was going to put them back in their graves once I’d seen the magic worked. I wasn’t even going to tell you about it, but you realized on your own what I’d done, and then you chose to bleach your brain instead.”

Stiles gasps, finally able to understand why he’d wiped his own memories. “I took on the consequences of the dark magic so that Erica and Boyd could stay.”

Theo nods. “The spark requires balance. I was planning to put them back the way I’d found them during the next full moon, but you just had to ruin everything.”

Stiles stares at him, appalled. “You were going to kill them again after letting them walk around for a _month_?” he shrieks. “You can’t toy with people’s lives like that!”

“Don’t be so dramatic. I wasn’t going to kill them; they were dead to begin with,” Theo persists, clearly unable to understand what Stiles finds so reprehensible about his actions.

“Okay, then who would pay the price after you break your ties to the Nemeton?” Stiles challenges. “By your own logic, you’re ‘dead to begin with’ as well.”

“Because of your pack!” Theo shouts, remaining firm on his stance. Stiles doesn’t know the story there, but something tells him that whatever happened, Theo deserved it.

“That’s your grand plan, then? You’re going to sit outside and wait for me to freeze to death?” Stiles can’t help but shake with mirth. “Erica and Boyd have been alive and well for _years_. And it’s taken you this long to capture me and stuff me inside my own freezer? What the hell, dude. I _live_ here!”

Theo growls, and Stiles swears he sees a glint of fangs. “It’s been surprisingly difficult to get you alone,” he admits. “The pack house is protected with your wards. And though the bakery isn’t warded, something here—I’m not sure what—has always acted as a defensive measure.” Stiles notes sourly that it sure as hell isn’t working right now. Theo continues, “The Nemeton gives us common ground, so the only time I could come at you was when you were in the preserve, although for the longest time, your memory spell kept you from wandering near there as well. But my patience eventually paid off.”

And without another word, Theo strides forward and punches Stiles hard across the face. Stiles starts to fall backwards, but Theo snatches him up by his shirt collar and tugs him forward. “Now for what I came for,” Theo says. He retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket, and Stiles splutters indignantly as Theo mops up the blood from Stiles’ bloody nose and busted lip. “That should do nicely to keep your pack distracted and running in circles long enough for you to die. Your smell is already all over this bakery. They’ll never think to look here. Especially not after I spread your scent all over the woods.”

Stiles takes advantage of their proximity and slugs Theo with one of his iron mitts. He makes a break for the door, desperately tries to use the safety release handle, but all to no avail. Theo must have used magic to keep the door firmly jammed because the handle won’t budge.

Theo grabs Stiles by the scruff of his neck and yanks him away from the door. Stiles tries to get his feet under him, but Theo seems almost effortlessly able to toss him into the far corner of the walk-in freezer.

“Just for that,” Theo snarls, his wounds already healing, “let me make your demise that much swifter.”

Stiles sees the spark crackle to life in Theo’s palm as he aims it at the busted temperature gauge. Even though he’s already freezing his ass off, Stiles actually feels the temperature drop as the air grows impossibly more frigid.

“I think we’re at about thirty below zero now. In a freezer this size, I’d say that gives you barely a handful of hours at most. Probably a couple hours, if I’m honest,” Theo comments casually. “That is, if you don’t run out of oxygen first.”

The freezer door opens then, and none other than Kate Argent pokes her head inside to pass Theo a roll of duct tape. Stiles gawks as he blurts out, “You’re the one working with Kate?”

Theo shrugs his shoulders. “You’ve got your pack,” he says, eyes flaring red, “and I’ve got mine.”

Stiles can’t believe what he’s witnessing. Theo’s an alpha, and Kate definitely isn’t an omega. And they’re working together! The mere possibility wasn’t even on the pack’s radar.

Kate eyes Stiles and says with feigned sympathy, “Should’ve taken me up on my offer, sweetie. Didn’t I say you’d regret it the next time you saw me?”

Stiles grits his teeth and springs forward, not even sure how he plans to retaliate, but Theo backhands him easily, sending him sprawling to the ground with no way to stop his fall. Stiles is still trying to clear his head when Theo crouches next to him and places duct tape over Stiles’ mouth, then wraps it clear around the back of his head, too. With the iron mitts still secured firmly over his hands, Stiles doesn’t have any means to attempt removing the tape.

Theo lightly smacks Stiles on the cheek, smirks when Stiles flinches away from his touch, then gets up and follows Kate out. The freezer door slams shut behind them, leaving Stiles to his fate.

Stiles sits up and tries to scream, but he’s only able to make a faint, muffled sound that would never carry far enough outside to alert any passersby to his plight. He needs to find another way out of here, or else he’ll die.

Stiles grunts with the effort to get back on his feet and tries the safety release handle again. It remains firmly in place, thanks to whatever spell or magic Theo has placed on it. Stiles stands on his toes and peers through the small window set high in the door, but much to his dismay, the kitchen is pitch black and appears deserted. That means it’s nighttime, though Stiles had already guessed as much; the sun had been dipping low in the horizon as he fought the nogitsune. The real problem is he can’t simply rely on Erica or someone else from the pack stopping by the bakery on chance. He’ll be a popsicle before that happens.

In his frustration, Stiles slams the iron mitts at the emergency release handle, then transitions to banging against the freezer door, but he can’t keep that up very long. The iron mitts clanging against the metal door cause his bones to rattle and his vision to go hazy. All in all, he decides it’s a waste of his efforts when there’s no guarantee someone might be around so late at night to hear the noises he’s making.

Stiles steps away from the door and gives his head a firm shake in an effort to clear his vision, but his assault on the door continues to reverberate through his bones. His head is pounding so much that he barely notices his pocket is vibrating.

Hope flares brightly in his chest when he realizes his phone is still tucked into his pocket. Theo must not have taken it off him, considering the iron mitts make it rather difficult for Stiles to do anything, let alone access his phone. But if he can just figure out some way to get it out of his pocket, he might be able to call for help.

By the time Stiles’ phone quits vibrating, he spots the metal shelf that cut into his right hip. The best plan he can come up with is to kneel next to it, snag his pocket on the shelf, then twist his hips quick enough to rip the denim and free his phone.

Unfortunately, it’s not so easy to tear apart his jeans. Stiles counts his phone vibrate four more times before he manages to create a tiny little split in his pocket, no larger than a centimeter at most. He thinks that slit might make it easier to rip the rest of his pocket off, but he’s wrong. Stiles reasons pockets are meant to stretch and withstand people shoving their hands and other items in and out of them; it’s not a surprise it’s so difficult to damage them.

When his phone vibrates again, Stiles has to stop and lean back against the shelving to catch his breath, inhaling and exhaling hard through his nose as the duct tape has held firm. He needs to rethink his strategy because he’s tiring himself out, and the cold seeping into his bones is making him sore with how often violent shivers wrack through body.

He’s not sure yet who’s calling him, but he’s confident the persistent efforts to reach him only confirm the pack is searching for him. Stiles takes comfort in that fact, but he estimates it’s been at least an hour—maybe more—since Theo and Kate left him. He can’t rely on the pack to wander into the bakery any minute since he knows Theo and Kate are spreading his scent all around the area to lead them on a wild goose chase.

Stiles closes his eyes and takes one more deep breath, knowing what he needs to do. He sucks in his stomach, then snags the waistband of his jeans on the metal shelf. He wriggles around and repeats the process a few more times until he’s able to slip his pants past his hips. He can’t help the whimper that escapes him as his skin touches the icy freezer floor, but from there, it’s a shimmy and a shake to shove his pants over his boxer briefs and down to his thighs before his phone easily slides free of his pocket.

Stiles groans in relief, then carefully brings his face to the metal shelf in order to tear off the duct tape. It takes a couple tries, and Stiles accidentally gouges his cheek in his efforts, but finally, he’s able to create a small rip in the duct tape. Then, he sticks the exposed duct tape to the shelving and slowly eases it off his skin, finally, _finally_ freeing his mouth.

Stiles rolls over and collapses against the shelving, breathing hard through his mouth and taking a moment to enjoy how he can see his breath fog up the air in front of his face. He doesn’t even realize he’s half dozing until he startles at the sound of his phone vibrating against the floor.

Carefully, Stiles leans down on his elbows and approaches the phone, grateful that it’s facing up. His heart skips a beat when he sees Derek’s calling him. Without wasting another second, Stiles accepts the call using the tip of his nose since his hands are still trapped inside the iron mitts. For one horrifying second, Stiles imagines his core temperature is too cold to have any effect on the touchscreen, but then he hears the most beautiful sound.

“Stiles?” Derek’s panicked voice cries out of the phone. Stiles slumps onto his side in relief because Derek’s mere voice is enough of a reassurance that rescue will arrive soon. “Stiles, are you there?” he continues. “Where are you? Answer me!”

“D-D-Der’k,” Stiles stutters, surprised he can hardly get the word out past his chattering teeth.

“Stiles!” Derek shouts, his alarm even more apparent at having heard Stiles’ strained response. “Tell us where you are!”

“Freezer,” Stiles croaks out. “At the b-b-bakery.” Derek curses loudly, but Stiles is helpless to respond as he shudders violently against the cold. Derek’s calling his name over and over again, and Stiles wonders when he’d tuned out. “M’here,” he murmurs. “S’cold.”

“Hang on, Stiles. We’re coming,” Derek promises. It sounds like he’s trying to stay calm, but Stiles can hear the worry in his voice.

“Careful,” Stiles warns as his body tenses up against another round of shivers. “It’s K-K-Kate. Working w-w-with Theo.”

“Theo?” Derek says, sounding confused. That throws Stiles because Theo had made it seem as though the pack knew about him. There’s a noise on the phone, and he can vaguely make out another voice in the background. Stiles thinks it might be Scott.

“He’s an alpha,” Stiles supplies, hoping it clears things up for Derek.

Instead, Stiles hears Scott’s voice exclaim loudly, “He’s an alpha now?!”

“Wants my s-s-spark,” Stiles slurs out.

After that, Stiles doesn’t even realize his eyes slip shut until he jolts awake at a booming noise coming from the door.

Though the voices are muffled, Stiles clearly hears someone wonder aloud, “Why won’t it open?”

“Move,” another voice demands sternly.

Then a loud, animalistic roar cuts through the air, making Stiles flinch. He doesn’t recognize it, as strange as that might seem. It doesn’t sound like his wolves.

“Shit! Peter, watch out!” Someone screams right before something crashes against the door. “Chris, go!”

Stiles grumbles through another couple explosive collisions with the door. His head is killing him, and it feels like someone’s shaking the entire building. He’s not sure if he’d like to pass out or throw up.

Then, without warning, the top-left corner of the freezer door juts inwards, and all the noises are suddenly so much louder. People are fighting outside, and his kitchen must be such a mess.

“Stiles!” Derek shouts, his voice loud and clear.

It feels like a chore to pry his eyelids open and look up at where Derek’s head is poking through the opening he’s made into the freezer. Stiles tries to move towards him because he feels it’s the least he can do, given Derek’s literally punching a hole through a giant metal box to get to him, but Stiles simply can’t make his limbs work the way he’d like them to. But it doesn’t matter because with one more shove, the freezer door groans open the wrong way; Derek literally took the door off its hinges.

“Stiles!” Derek cries out again as he scrambles inside the walk-in freezer and crashes to his knees at Stiles’ side. Immediately, he shrugs off his leather jacket and drapes it over Stiles’ torso. Stiles’ stomach rolls when he gets an eyeful of the blood-soaked t-shirt Derek’s still wearing from his tussle with the nogitsune.

Isaac comes into view next as he carefully touches Stiles’ head and removes the rest of the duct tape from where it’s stuck to his hair. “Why are his pants off?” he asks warily.

Stiles practically senses it the moment Derek’s eyes go round with panic, so Stiles musters up all the strength he can to shake his head, hoping it’s enough to reassure him that nothing untoward happened.

Erica tumbles in next, and with one look at him, she screeches, “Don’t just stare at him in _here_!”

That seems to kick Derek into action. He bundles Stiles into his arms and carries him bridal style out of the freezer. Derek’s impossibly warm, and Stiles is embarrassed to admit he whimpers a little when he’s set down on the kitchen floor.

“What the hell are these?” Erica asks as she examines the iron mitts still covering Stiles’ hands.

Derek growls when his eyes land on them. “Iron,” he bites out. “It subdues his magic.” One second they’re on Stiles’ hands, and the next, Derek breaks them apart with ease. Stiles wants to flex his fingers now that he can, but he’s just so, so cold. He curls his fingers into fists and crams them under his armpits. He hunches down into Derek’s leather jacket and shivers there miserably.

“Kate, don’t make me do this,” Stiles suddenly hears. His eyes blearily wander across his kitchen and catch sight of a middle-aged man pointing what looks like a short hunting rifle at Kate. He idly hopes no one gets shot today. Not inside his kitchen, anyway. It’d definitely be a health code violation.

Scott suddenly obstructs his view of the standoff. He wraps Stiles in a blanket he’s mysteriously acquired, then places a hand on Stiles’ forehead. Stiles can’t help but moan as he leans into the contact. Werewolves are so wonderfully _warm_.

“I think he might be hypothermic,” Scott says with a tinge of worry. Derek immediately wraps his arms around Stiles like an octopus, and Stiles melts into the touch with a rather pitiful whine.

“He can’t have been in there that long,” Erica insists.

“And he’s not really even shivering anymore,” Isaac points out.

“That’s not necessarily a good thing,” Scott mutters. He tries to make eye contact with Stiles, but Stiles simply can’t hold his gaze.

“Dizzy,” Stiles whispers weakly.

Scott’s expression grows even graver as he bites nervously at his bottom lip. “Maybe it’s carbon dioxide poisoning. We don’t know how long he was trapped in there.”

“Kate, no! Don’t!” It’s the unfamiliar voice again, and everyone crowding around Stiles turns back to view the commotion.

Kate appears to have pounced at the man, but no matter how close she gets, he doesn’t pull the trigger on his firearm. Right before she makes contact, Peter comes out of nowhere and snarls as he pushes her out of the way. He pins her to the ground, and Stiles turns his face into Derek’s chest when he sees Peter’s fangs descend towards Kate’s throat.

“Ambulance is here,” Isaac announces soon after. And with that, Derek scoops Stiles up into strong arms once more, jogging him out of the bakery. Stiles whimpers as he’s jostled because it feels as though his brain is detached from the rest of his head, and he’d like to not be in pain anymore.

Derek gently settles him on a stretcher out in the parking lot, and a paramedic carefully places an oxygen mask over Stiles’ mouth and nose. There are so many voices around him. He wants to pay attention to the paramedics, but he keeps searching for Derek. Then he gets distracted when Scott tells Isaac to call his dad, and then Derek isn’t where he’d been before. He becomes increasingly agitated as he calls for Derek, and just as he reappears and clutches Stiles’ hand tightly, someone pricks a needle into Stiles’ arm, and all the noise and hurt and cold just drifts away.


	17. Chapter 17

Stiles feels comfortable and toasty and safe when he wakes up under a mountain of blankets. From the intermittent beeps to his left, he knows he’s resting in a hospital bed. Stiles blinks drowsily a couple times as he begins fidgeting, and Derek immediately appears at the right side of his bed. He’s wearing hospital scrubs, most likely because someone made him change out of his bloody shirt.

“Hey,” Derek says, a soft smile touching his lips. He finds one of Stiles’ hands under the covers and squeezes it gently. “How are you feeling?”

Stiles grins up at him. “Floaty,” he replies. “What’s the prognosis? Am I gonna make it?”

Derek scowls at him. “Of course you’re going to make it.”

“How long was I out?” Stiles asks.

“Couple hours or so?” Derek replies. “They gave you something to help you relax, but it just put you to sleep. Probably the heavy magic use from earlier is what has you so exhausted.” Stiles nods and keeps to himself the fact he’d also pulled an all-nighter at the bakery. He has a feeling Derek would be just as unhappy as Erica had been to hear about that.

“Your dad’s outside talking to Melissa,” Derek goes on. “That’s Scott’s mom,” he explains. “She’s a nurse here.”

“Right,” Stiles murmurs.

“And I brought your grimoire,” Derek says, nodding at the bedside table. “Deaton says it can protect you, so it’s best you keep it near at all times.”

Understanding dawns on Stiles, and he perks up a little. “Theo said he could never get to my bakery until today. The grimoire must’ve been protecting me since it was cloaked within my cookbook all this time.”

“And you left it at the house today,” Derek says, nodding. “Of course.”

“Where’s the pack? Is everyone okay?” Stiles asks. He’s sort of glad it’s just Derek in his room; he’s enjoying the quiet. Still, he can’t help but worry about the others.

“They’re fine. Everyone’s in the waiting room,” Derek assures. “It’s the middle of the night. Visiting hours ended long ago, but I’m sure Scott’s pestering his mother to let a few more people in to see you.” Derek chuckles and adds, “That, or they’ll simply sneak in to see you soon.”

An easy silence settles between them for a few minutes until Stiles asks quietly, “Did you get him?”

Derek closes his eyes for a moment, then looks at Stiles in defeat. “He wasn’t there when we found you. Only Kate was.”

“He’ll try again,” Stiles says with certainty.

“I know,” Derek replies somberly. “But we’ll be prepared this time. We know who he is now.”

Stiles nods, uncertain how to take Derek’s words, considering Theo had overpowered them so easily in the woods. He’d expertly used Stiles’ spark against him. For the time being, he puts it out of his mind, choosing instead to say, “Thanks for saving me.”

“Always,” Derek says automatically. It looks as though it takes effort for him not to lean forward and do…something. Stiles wouldn’t mind it. He’s craving the contact right now. But Derek settles for squeezing Stiles’ hand once more just as the door opens.

Stiles rolls his head across the pillow and smiles at his dad, who is followed inside by a petite woman with curly brown hair and bright, friendly eyes. “You’re awake!” she exclaims happily.

“You gave me a scare, kid,” the sheriff says as he settles in the chair beside Stiles’ bed. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles insists, consumed with guilt for having worried his father.

The sheriff frowns, unconvinced. He turns to the nurse and says, “How’s he really doing, Melissa?”

“Hey!” Stiles complains, affronted.

Melissa smiles, clearly amused. “Hi, Stiles,” she says, and fondly pushes the hair off his forehead. “I’m Melissa, Scott’s mom.” Stiles nods, even though Derek had already told him as much. Melissa walks to the foot of his bed and retrieves his chart. “Mild hypothermia, possible concussion, carbon dioxide poisoning, and minor cuts and abrasions,” she rattles off. “The supplemental oxygen you received puts you out of the woods for now, but you need to take it easy. Your head will probably bother you the next couple days. Get some rest.”

Stiles nods. “When can I go home?”

Melissa purses her lips as she thinks. “Stay the night,” she decides. “I’ll see about getting you discharged in the morning.”

“What time is it now?” Stiles asks.

His father glances down at his wristwatch and replies, “Almost two in the morning.”

Stiles groans softly. The morning is so far away. “I hate hospitals,” he grumbles.

Everyone else in the room suppresses a smile as they say in unison, “ _We know_.”

~ ~ ~

“Just stick it in this thingy here,” Erica says.

“Quit touching that!” Derek snaps.

Erica sighs exaggeratedly. “There’s really no point in waiting.”

“ _Consent_ is the point of waiting,” Lydia says sternly.

“Besides, everyone knows how much Stiles hates needles,” Scott adds gently.

“Even more reason to get it over with while he’s still asleep,” Erica says reasonably. “I mean, did you miss the entire last week? This is literally what Stiles has been searching for the entire time.”

“What’ve I been searching for?” Stiles mumbles out groggily as he paws his way through all the blankets covering him.

“Great. You’ve woken him up,” Isaac says. Everyone shushes him just as Derek appears beside Stiles’ bed.

“Feeling okay?” Derek asks by way of greeting.

Stiles blinks a couple times, idly thinks how wonderful it must be to wake up to Derek Hale’s gorgeous face every morning, then nods. “Oh,” he moans at the movement. “Head’s still a little achy.”

“That’ll be the concussion,” Derek murmurs with a faint frown on his face. “Hang on.” He lightly wraps a hand around the nape of Stiles’ neck, and a moment later, it’s as though all the pain he feels is drained away.

“Holy God, that feels good,” Stiles slurs out. He hears the distinct sound of Erica snickering at what must be the loopy expression on his face, so Stiles shuffles into a seated position to get a good look at the room. Erica, Boyd, and Isaac are squeezed into a small couch pushed against the far wall. Lydia is perched at the foot of his bed, and Scott stands next to her, examining his chart. Peter is brooding sullenly in the corner by the door, and Derek is seated in the chair his dad had occupied earlier.

“Melissa convinced your dad to go home and get some rest,” Derek says when he notices Stiles staring at the chair.

“How long was I asleep?” Stiles asks.

“Only an hour this time,” Derek replies. “We would’ve had to wake you soon anyway, on account of the possible concussion.”

Stiles hums and smacks his lips together a couple times as he blearily thinks through the events of the past evening. “Oh, my God,” he gasps, eyes suddenly wide with panic. “Mason! Did anyone find Mason? Is he okay?”

“Mason’s fine,” Scott says as Derek gets up to fuss over Stiles’ disturbed covers. “He’s at home. Liam and Kira are looking after him today.”

“It’s not his fault,” Stiles says as he tries to parse together what he remembers. “He kept apologizing, and I think someone made him do…something?”

Scott sighs heavily as he returns Stiles’ chart where it belongs. “Yeah. Remember when I stuck my claws in your neck when we first tried to get your memories back?” he asks. Stiles nods. “Alpha werewolves can also alter memories while their claws are in a person’s head. It provides an opportunity for an alpha to convince a person to do things he or she might not ordinarily do.”

“Like surround the pack house in mountain ash, thereby trapping us all inside,” Isaac says bitterly. “Then lure you outside, past the protections of your wards, and right into Theo’s waiting claws.”

“Shit,” Stiles curses. “Is Mason all right?”

“He will be,” Scott says, looking grim. “The flu-like symptoms were a result of him resisting Theo’s control. Evidently, he’d been trying to warn us for days. He tried staying away, but Theo’s hold was too strong.” Scott grits his teeth and curses, “Manipulative bastard.”

“What happened out in the preserve?” Isaac asks. “We could hear you fighting, but the mountain ash kept us trapped in the house.”

Stiles shudders slightly as he recalls the gruesome events. “The nogitsune attacked me.”

“The nogitsune?” Scott echoes with a look of horror.

“You told him about the nogitsune?” Lydia hisses angrily. “I thought we agreed not to remind him about that!”

“He kept asking,” Scott says defensively, to which Lydia rolls her eyes.

“It’s a good thing you did tell me,” Stiles says, putting an end to their bickering. “If I hadn’t known, I might’ve died from the shock alone of being confronted by a monster wearing my face.”

“Surely it wasn’t actually the nogitsune,” Peter says cynically. “Scott’s assured us many times over the years that the nogitsune is no more.”

“No, it was a manifestation created by my spark, just like Kali and Jennifer,” Stiles replies. “Except he just kept coming back to life, no matter how many times I killed it. He nearly crushed me to death under an uprooted tree at one point before Derek arrived and distracted him long enough for me to save myself.”

“I take it that’s when—” Erica cuts herself off and drags a finger across her own neck.

“Yeah,” Derek grunts, running an uneasy hand over his throat.

“Clearly, you made it out alive,” Stiles says gratefully, “but how? The last I remember, you could hardly form proper syllables.”

“Well, I did bring the real Chris Argent from the airport,” Derek says. Stiles thinks he must have been the man he’d seen pointing a gun at Kate in the bakery. “He broke the mountain ash line around the house. You were gone by the time the pack arrived, but everyone together was able to keep me stable until Deaton showed up and worked his magic.”

“Back up. What do you mean by ‘real Chris Argent’?” Boyd asks.

“Oh,” Stiles says. “I stupidly assumed Theo was Chris when I first saw him, undoubtedly making it way easier for him to get the drop on me.”

“You had no way to know,” Scott assures. “He had the drop on all of us. We thought he was dead or gone or something. It didn’t even cross our minds he could be behind everything.”

“And he’s an alpha now,” Lydia murmurs, still in disbelief.

“Is he still an alpha if I killed his one and only beta?” Peter smirks, clearly quite proud of himself.

“I don’t know,” Scott replies. “Theo’s not exactly an ordinary were-creature.”

“Speaking of which,” Stiles says, “Theo wants my spark.” At the mere mention, Stiles' spark pulses warmly in his chest, and he can’t help but feel a small measure of comfort from its presence. “He says the pack put him _in the ground_?” Stiles continues with a shrug of his shoulders. “I’m not sure if that’s some weird supernatural euphemism, but he says it linked him to the Nemeton, and because my spark is also somehow connected to the Nemeton, he was able to hijack my spark.”

“Is that even possible?” Scott wonders aloud.

“Well, _duh_ ,” Isaac says, gesturing to Stiles as evidence.

Scott rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“When Jennifer had her go at trying to kill me in high school,” Lydia says, still slightly too casual about attempted murder and death for Stiles’ liking, “she also rambled about how the Nemeton brought her back to life. Given everything we know at this point, I’d buy that the Nemeton’s also associated with Theo now. He hasn’t exactly had the most ordinary relationship with life and death.”

“And when the actual nogitsune targeted Stiles back then,” Derek adds, “it had as much to do with the so-called darkness surrounding his heart as it did with the fact that his spark is connected to the Nemeton.”

“Exactly,” Lydia confirms. “I’d need to conduct more research to be certain, but it all sounds like it makes sense.”

“Right,” Stiles mutters, not thinking too hard about all that in hopes of staving off a fresh new headache. “Anyway, Theo’s using our mutual link to the Nemeton to hijack my spark, except he wants it for himself now. Unfortunately for him, he can’t kill me directly.”

“And that’s why he tried to freeze you to death?” Isaac asks skeptically.

“It would appear so,” Stiles says. “He said he needed my spark so he could use it to sever his connection to the Nemeton. That was his big end goal.”

“Seems legit,” Boyd mutters, clearly unconvinced. Erica giggles upon seeing the look on his face.

But Stiles doesn’t share in the laugh because more pieces are starting to fall into place for him. “Theo said he used my spark to bring you both back to life.”

“ _What?_ ” Erica says, gaping in disbelief.

“I don’t believe it,” Boyd insists as his hands instantly find Erica’s.

“I do,” Stiles says quietly. “That’s why my memories are gone. My memories paid the debt for your lives,” he explains. “Apparently, I figured out Theo was going to kill you both again to avoid the consequences that come with performing dark magic.”

“So you beat him to the punch and wiped your memories to ensure they’d continue to live,” Lydia says in astonishment.

“But you really had to wipe _all_ your memories?” Isaac insists. “Seems like overkill.”

“I don’t think I wiped all my memories. I was still a functioning person. I think I just wiped my memories of the pack." Stiles shakes his head, frustrated that even though he's beginning to figure things out, he still doesn't actually have his memories back. “All I know is Erica and Boyd were his test run, I guess. His next step was to perform the magic on himself.”

“And sever the connection with the Nemeton,” Boyd concludes. “Because Erica and I came back to life, and we definitely aren’t connected to it.”

“That must be why Stiles’ memory spell didn’t affect his interactions with Erica and Boyd,” Peter says, realization dawning on him. “In their current state, they’re a direct result of his spark, but since he can’t remember his spark, he was able to be around them.”

“Okay. Sure,” Scott says dubiously. “But what about you? Stiles didn’t forget about you, Peter.”

“He forgot about his spark and the pack,” Peter points out. Then he shrugs his shoulders and smirks proudly. “I’m _pack adjacent_.”

“Wow,” Isaac mutters, rolling his eyes.

Suddenly, Lydia’s eyes go wide as she quietly breathes out, “Oh, my God!” Then she frantically roots around her purse before she retrieves a small plastic syringe. It’s filled with a translucent purple liquid, and the needle is stoppered shut.

“Is that what I think it is?” Stiles asks nervously as he backs away, even though there’s nowhere for him to go.

Lydia nods slowly. “The tea—rather, _potion_ —from your grimoire,” she confirms. “Once Deaton patched up Derek, I asked him to help prepare this. By the way,” she adds, “he says he’s not the one who gave you the recipe.”

The grimoire still sits on the bedside table, so Derek picks it up and flips to the page with the recipe. “Then why would Stiles write in here that Deaton gave him the recipe?” he asks, pointing to the entry.

“Probably because he knew it was important to jot down the recipe, but also because he wanted to ensure someone didn’t randomly cook it up and ingest the stuff.” Lydia shakes her head. “I don’t know if we’ll ever understand what Stiles was thinking.”

Everyone chuckles a bit, but Stiles stammers out, “Lydia, you can’t inject me with that stuff. You can’t!”

“Oh, no,” Scott whispers as he finally cottons on to Stiles’ dilemma. “This stuff will give Stiles back his memories, but it also means Erica and Boyd will—” Scott stops, unwilling to finish the sentence.

“I think so,” Stiles says, biting his lip anxiously. “My memories paid the debt for their resurrections. And if there’s even a chance that getting my memories back means Erica and Boyd have to pay the price, then I don’t want my memories back.”

Derek closes his eyes and looks pained, but he nods all the same, clearly in agreement with Stiles’ decision. It’s not Erica and Boyd’s fault that they benefited as a result of Theo’s meddling, and they certainly shouldn’t have to pay for that with their lives.

“But that means you’ll forget all about us after today,” Erica says, eyes lined with tears. “Deaton’s serum wears off today.”

“I know,” Stiles says, his heart breaking as Erica starts to cry. Even Boyd’s become misty-eyed.

“I feel like this is all our fault, even though I know it’s not,” Erica warbles. Boyd wraps an arm around her shoulders and soothes her. “It’s not fair!”

There’s a lump in Stiles’ throat now as well, and he wills himself not to cry. “Hey,” he says as brightly as he can. “You’ll still see me every day. Or did you quit your job at the bakery while I was asleep?”

“I refuse to believe it’s all so simple,” Isaac says angrily. “Theo did this. He should be the one to pay the consequences. Not all of us.”

“I know,” Stiles agrees. “But he used my magic. And being that my spark is a part of me, I’m responsible as well. Cosmically, anyway. I have no idea how to redirect the consequences, but I’m not willing to gamble with Erica and Boyd’s lives.”

Scott looks a little constipated right before he announces, “I’m calling Deaton.” Then he storms out of the room.

“This is _not_ over yet,” Lydia declares as she furiously gathers her things. “Anyone who wants to research, follow me.”

Peter narrows his eyes and marches out the door after her.

“Guys, can I have a minute alone with Derek?” Stiles says.

Erica, Boyd, and Isaac look up in surprise, but Stiles sees it the moment Erica understands why. “C’mon, boys,” she says, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I’m sure Lydia could use our help.”

Once they’ve gone and it’s only Derek and Stiles in the room, Stiles heaves a weary sigh and says, “I’m sorry, Derek.”

“What? What are you talking about?” Derek says incredulously as he gets up from his chair and sits on the edge of Stiles’ bed.

“Out of everyone, I feel like this is most unfair to you,” Stiles explains. “I won’t remember any of this, but you will.”

Derek mouths wordlessly, at a loss for how to respond.

“I never got a chance to, but I was planning to ask you about mates,” Stiles says, blushing despite himself. Derek only looks on with a pinched expression on his face. “Why you’d ever anchor your ship to mine eludes me completely, but,” he hesitates a moment, “mates are supposed to make each other happy, right?”

“Well, yes. Mates complete each other,” Derek replies. “They’re two halves of a whole; two sides of the same coin. They make each other happy, they love and care for each other—”

“Right,” Stiles interjects, nodding. “And I can see all the ways you’ve made sure I was taken care of the past two years. When you couldn’t be near me, you ensured someone else could be. You took care of my dad when I couldn’t. I’m sure you’ve done countless other little things I might never even know about. And I’m so grateful, Derek, because I know you’ll keep doing all that after today, no matter what I say.”

“Of course I will,” Derek says, nodding in earnest.

“That’s just the type of person you are, and I appreciate it,” Stiles emphasizes once more. “But how can we be mates by your definition? Because I’ll be unable to care for you. I won’t even know who you are,” Stiles whispers, voice cracking at the end.

Derek shakes his head and insists, “That doesn’t matter, Stiles.”

“It matters to me,” Stiles says adamantly. “I want you to take care of yourself. And I don’t want you putting your whole life on hold for me, especially now that we know why my memories are gone. More importantly, we know they’re not coming back.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Derek persists.

“Okay, I know I don’t remember all the batshit crazy people the pack has tussled with over the years, but there’s no way someone _else_ will hijack my spark, mess around with dark magic, and displace the consequences to get my memories back,” Stiles says emphatically. “Get real, Derek. This is it.”

“Don’t say that,” Derek replies defiantly. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Stiles says, forcing a smile. “And it would make me happy if you’d find a way to move on.”

“Stiles, _no_ ,” Derek implores.

“It doesn’t have to be with another person,” Stiles goes on. “I guess I can imagine that might be difficult at first. But don’t close yourself off from the rest of the world. It’s not healthy.”

Derek clasps his hands together and rests his forehead against his fists. He stays there for a minute, then glances up. “Stiles, mates are forever,” he states simply, and the revelation crushes Stiles. It’s what he’d been worried about for Derek’s sake. “Even if I did find someone else, no one could take your place, and certainly not when you’re still out there.”

“I’ll be out there, but not with you,” Stiles points out. “That’s not a relationship.”

“It isn’t as though you had tons of relationships the past two years either,” Derek fires back. “You know Erica. She knows about every aspect of your life from the past two years and more, and you can bet she reported back to me, whether I asked her to or not. You never went out with anybody. You hardly went out at all, actually.” Stiles wonders now if he subconsciously couldn’t bring himself to do it, knowing Derek was somewhere out there. He’d certainly received offers from more than a few clients. “How can you expect me to find someone else when you never did?” Derek says desperately.

“God, this sucks so hard,” Stiles mumbles dejectedly, drawing his knees up to his chest.

Derek makes an abortive move, like he wants to reach over and touch Stiles, but he stops himself. The hesitation makes Stiles feel so alone and unanchored, and in that moment, he wishes more than anything they could both _do_ and _touch_ and _be_ as they desire, so he stretches across the distance and pulls Derek into his arms. They hold each other like that for a long time, and Stiles isn’t sure when he starts to cry. The aching sadness within him unfurls, and the tears flow freely as he tries to come to terms with what tomorrow will take and keep from him.

“What if you asked Scott to take your memories of me?” Stiles suggests just barely above a whisper.

Derek pulls away so he can look at Stiles, eyes glassy with tears as well. “I’m not even sure he could pull that off, but no. I would never do that,” Derek says firmly. “ _Never_.”

Stiles sits back and takes a deep breath, wiping the tears off his face. “I’m sorry I did, and yet,” he trails off.

“And yet you’d do it again,” Derek says, nodding in understanding. “You _are_ doing it again. And I,” Derek pauses a moment, then seems to think better of it. “I love you for that,” he confesses.

“Don’t make me cry again,” Stiles says with a shaky laugh. Though after a moment, he adds, “I love you for everything, Derek.”

Derek heaves a weary sigh. “You don’t have to say that,” he replies sadly.

“I do,” Stiles insists sincerely, “because I know it’s true.”


	18. Chapter 18

Stiles doesn’t get much more sleep at the hospital, much to Melissa’s chagrin. She scolds the pack for sneaking into Stiles’ room, and she gripes at Stiles for not resting as she’d ordered until Scott breaks the news that Stiles isn’t getting his memories back. After a tearful hug, she lets the entire pack camp out in Stiles’ room without a single word of protest.

He’s discharged right before breakfast, and everyone agrees to meet at the sheriff’s house for pancakes and waffles. Stiles will stay through lunch there and give the sheriff some quality father-son time. Meanwhile, Erica will briefly open the bakery for clients who need to pick up special orders; the shop is in utter disrepair, and they have no choice but to keep it closed for daily operations until the kitchen is cleaned and the freezer door restored, though Erica promises she’ll make arrangements for all of that. Finally, Stiles will spend the afternoon with Derek and the pack, then return home to his loft after dinner.

“I know today sucks, but Erica and Boyd could lighten up a _little_ ,” Stiles bemoans from the passenger seat of Derek’s Camaro as they drive to the sheriff’s house. Scott’s gone ahead on his motorcycle, Peter is driving Isaac, and Lydia is giving a ride to Erica and Boyd. “I mean,” Stiles continues, “even Boyd is giving me puppy dog eyes. _Boyd_!”

“They likely can’t figure out how to act,” Derek says reasonably. “They just found out how they came back to life and why they’re staying that way. You’re to thank, and even though none of this is their fault, I imagine they feel guilty, regardless.”

“It’s not like I was going to let them keel over and die instead,” Stiles says, gazing sullenly out the window at a blur of passing trees.

“They realize that, too,” Derek says. “But the fact of the matter is you’re getting a raw deal, and they’re not. It’s probably going to take them time to resolve their feelings about what’s happened.”

“Y’know,” Stiles says, turning to Derek, “some of my earlier entries in the grimoire make note of your awful relationship with words and feelings, but you’re actually rather good at this.” He narrows his eyes. “What gives?”

“I think you called me Sourwolf one too many times,” Derek says with a fond laugh. “Add therapy to the mix, and I gradually figured myself out.” He smiles and glances quickly to Stiles before his eyes return to the road. “You helped, too. I’ve grown as a person since we first met. We both did.”

Stiles’ heart clenches in that moment. He’s going to miss Derek so much.

“Hey,” Derek murmurs as he leans forward and squints at Lydia’s car ahead of them. “What’s she doing?”

“Did she forget we’re meeting at my dad’s house?” Stiles asks as Derek slows down.

“Maybe she’s having car trouble—” Derek cuts himself off as he stares at Lydia’s car turning off the road and heading into the preserve.

“I take it my dad’s house isn’t in that direction?” Stiles says uncertainly.

Derek purses his lips, then turns the Camaro to drive after them. “Sometimes Lydia does this thing. Her banshee powers sometimes take over her brain,” he explains quickly, one hand gesturing while the other stays on the wheel. “She’s unaware it’s happening until it stops and she arrives at some random location.”

“That sounds mildly terrifying,” Stiles mutters. “Does this happen often?”

“No,” Derek replies, expression grim.

“At least Erica and Boyd are in the car with her,” Stiles says. “They’ll keep her safe.” Derek grunts in agreement and concentrates on navigating the forest’s terrain. “Should I call the rest of the pack, though?” Stiles asks. He and Derek had been bringing up the rear; everyone else’s car had driven ahead of them.

“Not yet,” Derek says. “Usually she ends up in innocuous places. Wherever she ends up will be related to the supernatural, but we’ll come back and check it out later.”

 _Later_ , Stiles realizes with dismay, when the pack’s daily lives will move on without him.

“We’ll probably bring Parrish,” Derek goes on. “His hellhound powers are tangentially connected to Lydia’s.”

They continue driving in silence for a few more minutes, Derek keeping the Camaro close behind Lydia’s little car. Stiles idly wonders how the rocky, bumpy forest floor hasn’t completely wrecked the undercarriage of Derek’s vehicle when he feels them begin to slow down. They drive at a crawl for another minute or so before Lydia’s car comes to a complete stop.

Nothing seems particularly supernatural about their location in the woods, so Stiles opens the door and tumbles outside before Derek can grab him.

“No way,” Stiles breathes out as his eyes land on an enormous tree trunk just ahead of Lydia’s car. “The freakin’ Nemeton?” he says in wonder.

“Get back inside the car,” Derek commands as he scans their surroundings for immediate threats.

Stiles doesn’t, of course, as he’s distracted watching Erica and Boyd scramble out of the backseat of Lydia’s car. Lydia slowly opens her driver’s side door and gingerly steps outside.

“Take it easy, Lyds,” Erica says, gently taking her hand and helping her lean against the side of the car.

Stiles jog over to them. “Are you okay?” he asks, alarmed to see Lydia so pale and anxious.

Lydia nods shakily, though Stiles doesn’t find it convincing. She’s wearing a crossbody purse, and her fingers won’t quit fiddling nervously with the strap. “Can you guys hear anything?” she whispers.

Stiles strains his hearing for any sounds he can make out, but then he sees Erica and Boyd concentrating as well, and he realizes Lydia had directed the question to the werewolves with supernatural hearing.

“Don’t hear anything,” Erica mumbles as she closes her eyes and frowns slightly. “But there’s something else. I’m not sure what it is.”

“It’s the air,” Boyd supplies, looking around suspiciously. “It feels…wrong.”

“It’s the Nemeton,” Derek declares, sounding short and clipped. “Everyone back in the car. Lydia, give your keys to Erica.”

“Malia was right,” Lydia murmurs in a daze. “The Nemeton has its own wards. This is where Theo first used Stiles’ spark two years ago.”

“ _Keys_ , Lydia,” Derek presses.

“Still in the ignition,” Erica points out.

“We need to leave now,” Derek says, more urgent than before. Lydia appears to snap back to herself as she walks around the car without question. Erica takes the driver’s seat, and Boyd resumes his position in the back. Derek hurries Stiles along to the Camaro, but just as he reaches for the door handle, they hear Lydia cry out in surprise.

They whirl around and gasp at the scene before them. Theo’s got Lydia in a chokehold, and he’s dragging her backwards, towards the Nemeton. Boyd’s closest to them, but as he reaches out for Lydia, Theo shoots a crackling ball of blue spark energy in his direction. It hits the ground by Boyd’s feet, but it effectively holds him off.

Lydia’s feet fruitlessly kick against the dirt for purchase until Theo eventually comes to a halt once they’re standing atop the Nemeton.

“Freakin’ Theo,” Erica grumbles. Both she and Boyd are now crouched outside Lydia’s car, ready to spring into attack.

“Let her go!” Derek demands. He marches forward and strategically places himself between Stiles and Theo. When Stiles tries to edge closer, Derek instinctively splays out his arm, effectively keeping Stiles behind him. Stiles isn’t happy about that. Still, he keeps his spark poised at the tips of his fingers, ready to defend his friends.

“This is called leverage,” Theo announces loftily. Lydia tries to elbow him in the gut, and he immediately grabs the offending arm, twists it behind her back, and applies pressure until Lydia whimpers for mercy.

Thankfully, Theo grants it as he releases her arm. Then he gives her a rough shake to stop her from squirming around so much. “You remember the last time we met, and you made me unhappy?” he says straight into Lydia’s ear.

Lydia wheezes against his tightening grip, her blunt fingernails scratching uselessly at the arm Theo has pressed against her throat.

Theo snarls, “ _Behave_ , unless you want this to end much worse than it did then.”

“Go to hell,” Lydia grinds out between clenched teeth.

Theo chuckles and rolls his eyes, like Lydia’s wrath is the least of his concerns. “Here’s how this is going to work. Either I kill Lydia,” he proclaims, pausing to grin smugly when the werewolves growl in unison, “or one of you kills Stiles.”

“What?” Erica yelps.

“Because he can’t be the one to kill me if he wants the spark,” Stiles clarifies.

Derek turns back to glare at him in disbelief. “Shut up, Stiles!”

“And if you don’t kill Stiles,” Theo continues, “then I’ll kill Lydia here, and then I’ll find a way to kill Stiles as well.”

“How exactly is that a deal?” Stiles says as he shoves past Derek. “Both options kinda leave our pack in the lurch.”

“Your pack _left me in the ground_!” Theo bellows furiously.

“In the ground?” Erica intones under her breath. Boyd shrugs his shoulders.

“Just let Lydia go,” Stiles says, taking careful steps towards the Nemeton.

“Stiles, don’t!” Derek calls after him.

Stiles isn’t sure on the plan just yet. He has enough control of his spark that he’s confident he could attack Theo if need be, but the problem is that with Lydia acting as Theo’s shield, Stiles doesn’t have a clear shot.

“Out of everyone here, Lydia has nothing to do with any of this,” Stiles says as he continues his advance. “Just let her go.”

“She aligns herself with your pack, so she bears all your burdens as well,” Theo states, clearly not intending to back down.

Stiles wracks his brain for ideas. He refuses to let another person get hurt because of Theo’s obsession with his spark. “Kate’s dead, right?”

Theo emits a subvocal growl as Erica hisses, “Don’t remind him!”

“What if I agree to join your pack?” Stiles proposes.

“Stiles, no!” Derek shouts, instantly at his side.

Stiles gazes dolefully at Derek and whispers, “It’s the only way. I don’t want anyone else to die.”

Derek shakes his head and insists, “He’ll still find a way to kill you. He wants your spark.”

“One problem at a time,” Stiles replies. He turns back to Theo and says, “If I join your pack, you’d be my alpha. You’d have power over me, so there wouldn’t be any reason to kill me to have me—and my spark—do your bidding. And you wouldn’t need to hurt Lydia either. Right?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Stiles,” Lydia warns. Stiles frowns in confusion when he notices her hands slowly creep towards her purse to undo the clasp, leaving the bag open.

Meanwhile, Theo seems to consider the offer carefully, undoubtedly trying to identify any loopholes or problems. He narrows his eyes finally and gestures to Derek. “You’re mated to him. I can smell it.”

“Okay, embarrassing,” Stiles mutters. “I wish people would stop smelling me, but so what if I am mated to him?”

Theo shoots him a withering glare. “You’ll eventually grow restless, knowing your mate is out there.” He pauses, then decides, “The brute joins the pack, too.”

Derek takes a large step forward and declares, “I’m not joining your pack.”

“Maybe quit calling him a brute?” Stiles suggests facetiously.

Lydia suddenly startles them all and says, “Do it.” There’s no give in her voice, and even Theo gapes at her in surprise. But Lydia isn’t looking at Stiles or even at Derek; her eyes are laser-focused on Erica and Boyd.

“Lydia, what—?” Stiles begins to say, but Boyd interrupts him.

“Erica and I will collect Lydia,” he says to Theo, “while Derek and Stiles go to you.”

“Boyd,” Derek growls. “What are you doing?”

“It’s the only way,” Erica says reasonably. “This way, neither Stiles nor Lydia will have to die.”

“But what’s the point if we’re no longer a pack?” Derek cries, clearly unwilling to accept what Erica, Boyd, and Lydia are on board to do.

“Stiles,” Boyd says, ignoring Derek’s outburst. “Take Derek’s hand.”

“What?” Stiles says, perplexed beyond all reason. He’s been lost often the past few days, and usually he looks to Derek for guidance, but Derek is equally at odds with the situation. He’s not sure what to do.

Boyd sighs, then marches over to Derek and Stiles, He forcefully claps their hands together, then pushes them to start walking towards the Nemeton.

“ _Boyd_ ,” Derek hisses, betrayal marked clearly on his face.

“No funny business,” Theo warns as Erica makes her way to Lydia’s side. “I’m not handing her over until Stiles and Derek formally accept me as their alpha.”

“Obviously,” Lydia says tightly, not moving a muscle as Erica arrives at her side and reaches a hand inside her purse. It’s beyond Theo’s vantage point, so he’s the only one in the clearing who doesn’t see it when Erica retrieves the syringe filled with the purple memory potion that will supposedly restore Stiles’ memories—the same one that would theoretically kill both Erica and Boyd as well.

Stiles has to fight every instinct not to shout in distress because he doesn’t want to alert Theo and anger him further. Still, Stiles’ heart hammers in his chest because he knows this can’t possibly end well. He’s much too far away for Erica to reach him with the syringe, but she could always try throwing it to Boyd. Except that wouldn’t necessarily do anything to save Lydia. Then again, Lydia’s the one who had said to “do it” in the first place, so perhaps this is her idea? Maybe she’s got something up her sleeve.

Derek tenses at his side when Boyd pushes them up onto the Nemeton. Even though they’ve both clearly spotted the syringe and realize their packmates must have some kind of plan, Stiles can sense Derek’s on high alert because the situation is wildly unpredictable and out of control at this point.

“Let’s get a move on,” Theo says impatiently, backing up a couple steps to make room for Stiles, Derek, and Boyd.

Erica appears to stumble as she moves with him so that she remains at Lydia’s side, and then quick as lighting, her arm reaches back across Theo’s shoulders, and Stiles spots her hand as she plunges the syringe straight into Theo’s neck and depresses the plunger.

Stiles and Derek gape in utter shock as Theo’s fangs drop and he roars in fury. With the needle still sticking out of his neck, he shoves Lydia away, then twists around to attack Erica.

“No, you don’t,” Stiles says, bolting forward as he fires his spark at Theo, knocking him away from Erica.

Theo yanks the syringe out of his throat and throws it aside. “What have you done?” he demands, fuming.

“What should’ve been done two years ago,” Erica replies. Boyd steps past Derek and Stiles to stand proudly next to her. Stiles is proud as well, even though he’s still not sure what’s happened. Outwardly, Theo seems unaffected by the injection.

“You’ll pay for this!” Theo yells, expression murderous. Stiles watches as the spark gathers in Theo’s palms. It feels almost like an out-of-body experience because for some bizarre reason, the move just seems so juvenile all of the sudden.

Before Theo has a chance to attack, Stiles sends forward two streams of spark energy from each of his hands to touch the spark resting in Theo’s palms. The spark disappears from Theo’s grasp, and Stiles can actually feel it as he absorbs that energy. Then he raises his hands and appears to push the air in front of him. In tandem with the motion, the air shimmers for a moment right before Theo goes flying off the Nemeton, landing hard on his back a few feet away. Stiles steps forward, in front of his pack, ready to defend them all.

Theo scrambles into a sitting position and screams, “No!” Then he clutches his head, eyes stricken with fear, as he shouts, “What have you done?”

Stiles distinctly notes a beat of satisfied silence before Theo screams in pain…and Stiles does, too.

“Stiles, what’s wrong?” Derek cries out in alarm.

“My head,” Stiles moans, hands instantly clapping against his ears. He has no idea how to communicate the unspeakable pain he’s experiencing. It’s as though an unrelenting pressure is building up from the base of his skull, and he honestly fears it might result in his head actually exploding. “Make it stop,” he whimpers as his knees give out. He’s just barely aware of Derek catching him before he can crumple to the ground.

Erica’s suddenly in his face, hands cupping Stiles’ cheeks. “Shh. You’ll be fine,” she says with a reassuring smile. Her fingers run through Stiles’ hair, and he feels it as her hands drain some of his pain, though it’s not nearly enough. The pain she takes is instantly replaced with fresh new agony.

“I can’t—” Stiles starts to say as tears prick his eyes. “ _Help_ ,” he whines piteously.

Boyd’s at his side now, too, helping Derek ease him onto the ground. He thinks Boyd might be saying something, but he panics when he realizes he can’t hear a thing. The unyielding pain is all he knows now, and Stiles would do anything to make it stop.

Without warning, his vision grows hazy, and then it goes blindingly white. Stiles screams as he struggles against the hands pressing him into the ground.

He can’t see, he can’t see, _he can’t see_. Why can’t he _see_?

Then it feels like someone’s driving a railroad spike into his brain, and he doesn’t know how he’ll ever not feel echoes of this colossal hurt. His body is both numb and on fire. Death would be the kindest mercy at this point.

And that’s when a barrage of bright, colorful images floods his mind. He sees his dad first— _knows_ and loves his dad. All the missing memories from school—meeting Scott, having adventures in the woods, trying out for lacrosse, lusting after Lydia Martin, meeting Derek Hale— _Derek, Derek, Derek—_

“I’m here! I’m right here!” Stiles hears a voice say right next to his ear.

The visceral assault of images on his brain is simply too much to bear. He begins to hyperventilate, and the situation isn’t helped by the fact that Stiles still can’t see anything. He can’t see anything, and yet he sees everything in his mind. The overstimulation combined with the overwhelming pain has him babbling and whimpering and wishing he were dead. It’s just too much. Everything is too much.

“Stiles, _please_ ,” someone whispers desperately.

His ears begin ringing, and it’s the final straw. He can’t hear, he can’t see, he can’t speak, touch, or feel. As it seems, he can’t even die. Why can’t he just die?

Amid all the panic, an ear-piercing scream suddenly shatters through the chaos, rattling Stiles’ very bones.

He blearily thinks it might be Lydia.

And then, mercifully, he thinks no more.


	19. Chapter 19

Stiles startles awake in his loft, and he can’t remember how he got there. He sits up in bed and silently stares at his furniture. Dirty dishes are piled in the sink, his secondhand couch sags sadly in the middle, and he really needs to vacuum and dust the place. The sun shines brightly through his windows, which makes him grab at his alarm clock. It’s ten in the morning, and he’s pretty sure it’s not his day off. Why didn’t Erica wake him?

Stiles’ eyes go wide with panic.

 _Erica_.

 _Boyd_.

“Shit,” Stiles curses as he struggles to untangle the covers from his legs. He’s in a t-shirt and boxers as he dashes across the loft and frantically runs down the stairs. He bursts into the shop front, which is empty since no one opened up the shop this morning. The chairs are still flipped upside down on the tabletops. Erica’s the one who sets them right again every morning.

“Don’t panic,” Stiles whispers to himself. “Shop’s not open. That’s why she left the chairs.” He nods with conviction. That makes sense.

With bated breath, Stiles eases the swinging door open and steps into the kitchen. “What the…” He gapes incredulously at the spotless kitchen. Peter straight up murdered Kate here, but there’s no evidence of it ever having happened. Even the freezer door has been repaired.

Stiles walks over to it and wrenches it open. He keeps one hand on the door as he peers closely at the shelf that had played such a pivotal role in his escape, but it’s undamaged and shows no indication of Stiles’ brief but traumatizing captivity.

Stiles backs out of the freezer and shuts it firmly. This means nothing. After all, Erica had said she was going to make all the arrangements to repair all the damage in the bakery. But where the hell is she?

In fact, where is _everybody_?

After everything that had happened, why did he wake up in his loft alone?

Stiles runs a hand through his hair, struggling to keep his panic at bay. He pushes through the swinging door and returns to the shop front. He paces anxiously before the windows, trying and failing not to think the most ridiculous thought of all: _What if it was all dream?_

Fortunately, he doesn’t get a chance to spiral too much because he glances up and catches his reflection in the window, eyes specifically honing in on his busted lip. He turns slightly and notes a dark bruise across his jaw from where Theo punched him, and then a bandaged wound at his temple. He twists around, lifts up his shirt, and sees a stitched closed wound at his right hip.

It’s all evidence that everything had been real…right?

Well, unless he’d been in some horrendous accident that caused him to hallucinate he’s a ranking member of a bona fide werewolf pack.

Funnily enough, hallucinating werewolves seems more farfetched to him than the reality of werewolves.

Stiles pats his boxers before he realizes there’s no way they have pockets for a phone. So he walks over to the front counter and picks up the landline. He stares at it a moment before cursing in frustration because he doesn’t know a single phone number off the top of his head.

He hangs up and stands there a minute, trying to regulate his breathing. He refuses to believe the pack left him here all alone. Not unless Erica and Boyd—

Stiles actually whimpers aloud, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep himself from weeping at the mere thought. They can’t be dead. They _can’t_.

“Derek, where are you?” Stiles cries out hopelessly.

It’s hardly a second after that when someone practically rips the front door off its hinges, causing the little bells above it to ring cheerfully in the breeze from outside. Stiles whirls around and feels his heart swell with joy.

“Derek!” Stiles exclaims, tears springing to his eyes as a surge of memories about the man he loves flare brightly in his mind. He runs to the door and leaps into Derek’s waiting arms, locking his own arms around Derek’s neck, and his legs around Derek’s trim waist. He closes the remaining distance between their lips with a heated kiss that only ends when Stiles is too overwhelmed with emotions to continue. “Where were you?” he says around a sob.

“Stupid Deaton,” Derek mutters by way of explanation. His fingers reverently trace the shape of Stiles’ face as he gazes at him in wonder. “You slept for three days.”  
  
Stiles pulls back and gasps. “Three days?”

“He was worried there could be a chance you didn’t get your memories back,” Derek explains. “But I knew,” he assures, nodding fervently. “I could feel it. I knew I had you back.”

“Is everyone okay?” Stiles asks, almost dreading the answer. “Erica? Boyd?”

“Everyone is fine,” Derek replies immediately. He smiles at the sheer relief on Stiles’ face. “ _Everyone_ ,” he promises once more.

“Oh, thank God,” Stiles whimpers gratefully. He buries his face in Derek’s neck and revels in the feeling of being so close to him after so long. He shivers as Derek’s hands run over his body like it’s a treasure. Every touch is _home_.

“Just so you know,” Stiles murmurs, “I’m not letting go of you for a while.” Derek rumbles in approval, and Stiles can’t help but giggle at the vibrations it causes against his skin. “But,” he continues, “I’m also in my underwear here in broad daylight.”

“That’s what you get for never locking the front door,” Derek teases. Stiles can hear the cheeky grin in his voice.

“This again?” Stiles says, pulling back so he can fully enjoy Derek’s face, radiant and light with happiness. “How about this,” Stiles proposes. “If you’d just step inside and close the door,” he gazes up through his eyelashes, “I’ll totally make it worth your while.”

Derek raises an eyebrow, interest piqued. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.” Stiles beams as he leans in to whisper, “You’ll probably want to lock the door this time.”

~ ~ ~

As it turns out, Erica and Boyd had fully expected to die when they injected Theo with the syringe full of purple memory potion. Given Theo and Stiles were linked, they assumed injecting Theo might have the same results as injecting Stiles. Evidently, they’d been discussing the possibilities in Lydia’s car before her banshee powers interrupted the conversation. Lydia had been against the whole thing, of course, but Erica and Boyd had come to terms with their decision. They’d both been willing to lay down their lives so that Stiles could have his back. Lydia found the idea preposterous and immensely risky, but Erica and Boyd had been adamant, which is why Lydia had finally agreed to the plan while Theo had been busy threatening to kill her.

Stiles scolds them all—especially Erica and Boyd—but then they exchange tearful hugs and thank their lucky stars everything worked out in their favor. Even Deaton can’t explain with certainty why Theo endured the consequences of the dark magic that had resulted in Erica and Boyd’s resurrections, but his best guess is the Nemeton set things right since Theo managed to escape paying his debt the first time around. Theo died one final time—for good—thereby balancing out the price for the magic. Thus, Stiles got his memories back, and Erica and Boyd continue to live.

No one questions this conclusion because they can’t exactly disprove it. One thing they finally do know is precisely how Stiles managed to forget about the entire pack. It turns out he hadn’t wished them all away; his intention had been to forget about his spark. However, because Stiles’ spark is such an integral part of his identity in the pack, casting a spell to block his spark unfortunately blocked the pack as well.

Deaton surmises the only reason Erica, Boyd, and Derek never caused Stiles headaches when he saw them the past two years is because they were linked to him. Erica and Boyd, of course, had been brought back to life with the power of Stiles’ spark. Derek, on the other hand, is Stiles’ mate—connected to him in a way that transcends cosmic laws.

No one can figure out how Peter had been able to swan in and out of Stiles’ shop the past two years without incident when even his own father had had to stay away. “Pack adjacent,” Peter crows every time someone interrogates him about it. Stiles wants to believe it’s that simple, but at the same time…it’s _Peter_. It’s so difficult to be sure about anything where he’s concerned.

Stiles’ memories return to him slowly. They’re all there in his head, but he seems to remember things as he thinks of them. One minute, he’ll think of something seemingly random, and the next, all his memories regarding the subject abruptly drop into place, and it’s like they’d never been gone at all. The feeling is a little unsettling, and Stiles compares it to the stomach-sinking sensation he gets any time he misses the last step on the stairs, but he’s willing to deal with it when it means he has his family and friends back.

It doesn’t take long for Stiles to move back into the pack house and into the room he shares with Derek. He coaxes Derek into emptying the oak chest hidden inside his closet, and their room gradually comes back to life, showcasing their old memories while also making space for new ones.

His old loft isn’t forgotten either. They convert it into a large seating area for the bakery. Derek builds shelves along all the walls and fills them with their favorite books. They drag in tables and chairs and comfy couches, and gradually, Claudia’s Bakery transforms into Claudia’s Café. In addition to Stiles’ signature baked goods, they sell coffee and sandwiches, and various quirky food items, depending on what Stiles is experimenting with in the kitchen at any given time. Business is booming, though Stiles has been using the phrase ever since he’s managed to earn enough money each month to pay himself and to pay rent on his own. Now, he’s successful enough that he’s been able to hire on Isaac, Boyd, and Liam in addition to Erica's part-time hours.

Some time later once things have settled down, Stiles and Derek cuddle in bed. They’re both pleasantly warm and cozy after Derek came home grimy and sweaty from his job at the nursery, and Stiles happily helped him clean up in the shower.

Derek leans back against the headboard as he reads a book, while Stiles rests his head on Derek’s shoulder and lazily thumbs through messages and photos on his phone, still going through the backlog of things he missed over the past two years. He shudders every once in a while when a random inside joke tucked inside a text message or an obscure little detail in a photo triggers a new-old memory.

“I asked Deaton today about getting the tattoo,” Stiles says, not looking up from his phone.

“Oh, yeah?” Derek murmurs. “What’d he say?”

“He thinks it’s a good idea,” Stiles replies. “Says it should protect me from ever having my spark hijacked again.”

“ _Good_ ,” Derek says with relief. He turns to drop a kiss on Stiles’ head, and Stiles snuggles closer to him.

“He, uh,” Stiles stammers, feeling a little ridiculous for being nervous about this. “Deaton says the magic or protection or whatever is in the ink.”

“Okay,” Derek says warily as he places his book on his chest and focuses on Stiles, clearly sensing his unease.

“So, that means I get to pick out what the tattoo looks like,” Stiles says, finally glancing up from his phone.

“And?” Derek presses.

“Honestly, you can’t be this oblivious,” Stiles snaps, flailing a little. Then he screws up his courage and blurts out, “I want to get a triskele like yours.”

Derek blinks once, twice, clearly taken off guard. “Oh,” he says softly. He’s silent another few seconds, then shrugs his shoulders and says, “Okay, then.”

“Yeah?” Stiles says, trying to get a read on him. Derek simply nods. “I mean, I probably won’t get it on my back like you. My anxiety over the needle is going to be bad enough, so I don’t think I’d make it through the needle drawing a ginormous shape all across my back.”

Derek huffs out a laugh. “Where were you thinking of getting it?”

Stiles rotates his right arm so his palm faces up and points just below the crook of his elbow. “Right here,” he says. “I like that I’d be able to see it, no matter how I’ve got my wrist turned.”

Derek hums and delicately runs his fingers over Stiles’ skin.

“What?” Stiles asks, easily sensing that something is off with him. “I can pick another design if you don’t want me to copy yours.”

“No, it’s not that,” Derek assures hastily. “Believe me. The thought of you marking yourself with a symbol that’s clearly important to me, it, uh,” the tips of his ears turn pink as he flushes brightly, “it does things to me.”

Stiles grins impishly, definitely pleased to hear that. Still, he can tell Derek’s not being entirely forthcoming. “ _I’ll_ do things to you if you won’t tell me what’s eating at you.”

“It’s stupid,” Derek says miserably, not even taking the bait to deflect, “but right before you placed the block on your memories, we got into this huge fight about—”

“The rings from our mating ceremony,” Stiles finishes as the memory rushes back to him and snaps into place. “You wanted to get them engraved—”

“And you didn’t,” Derek says. “I still don’t know why you got so upset, but now I’m wondering if it was because you didn’t want to mark yourself in a way that symbolically tied us together.”  
  
“Because without the engravings, the rings are just rings,” Stiles states.

“Yeah,” Derek replies. “I’ve thought about that fight a lot, considering it was our last one for a long time. I couldn’t even find either of our rings after you were…gone,” he says for lack of a better term. “After you showed up at the sheriff’s station and they admitted you to the hospital, no one could find your ring, and mine vanished, too.”

“Holy God.” Stiles gives his head a little shake as another memory slots into place. “You’re going to kill me, but I got mad because I’d wanted to propose the idea for engravings first,” he says as he crawls out of bed to retrieve the grimoire from where it rests on the bookshelf.

“You’re joking,” Derek says flatly.

“No. The fight just got blown stupidly out of proportion,” Stiles says as he returns to Derek’s side.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where the rings are, would you?” Derek says hopefully.

“I would, actually. Just got that memory back too, and it’s _good_ ,” Stiles promises. He flips through the grimoire and lands on the mysteriously blank “note to self” entry that doesn’t actually contain any notes. “Watching?” Stiles asks, stealing a sidelong glance at Derek, who looks on with keen interest. Stiles’ spark pulses warmly against his palm right before he reaches a hand straight _inside_ the page.

“That’s new,” Derek remarks, backing up a bit so he can double-check that Stiles’ hand hasn’t punched right through the other side of the book.

A second later, Stiles withdraws his hand, now curled into a fist, and the “note to self” text on the page vanishes, leaving behind a pristine, empty page.

“Tada!” Stiles uncurls his fingers, revealing two gold wedding bands in his palm, one slightly bigger than the other. “I didn’t exactly have a lot of time when I realized two years ago what Theo was planning. I happened to have the rings on me, so I stashed them in the grimoire before wiping my memories.”

Derek’s face is frozen in an expression of astonishment as he picks up the smaller of the two. “ _To the moon and back_ ,” he reads off the inside of the ring. The one remaining in Stiles’ hand contains the same inscription. Derek’s eyes soften as he looks up and says, “You got them engraved?”

“Actually, I did the engraving—with my spark,” Stiles says, a brief flash of pride crossing his face. Then he rambles anxiously as his nerves get the better of him. “You’re not mad, are you? God, I still can’t tell you how sorry I am for what you’ve gone through, Der. I figured the pack would take out Theo, and maybe Deaton would help you realize what had happened with me. I had no idea it’d take _two years_. Shit.”

“Maybe leave a note next time,” Derek quips with a good-natured laugh.

“Shut up,” Stiles says, blushing despite himself. He pauses then and grows self-conscious once again. “You really like the engraving?”

A genuine smile touches Derek’s lips. “I love it, Stiles. You’re amazing. Thank you.”

“Well, damn,” Stiles says, bashful as he runs a hand through his own hair. “I guess I better put a ring on it, then.” He delights in the way Derek rolls his eyes at the cheesy line. Gently, Stiles takes up Derek’s left hand and slips the ring he’s holding onto Derek’s ring finger. His eyes flick up to lock with Derek’s as he murmurs, “Yours.” It’s a promise, confession, and submission contained within one single word.

Derek does the same as he takes the ring in his hand and places it on Stiles’ finger. His hands close over Stiles’ as he swoops in for a quick kiss, and then he gazes lovingly at Stiles as he pulls back and echoes, “Yours. All yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! I have so enjoyed sharing this fic with you week after week, and I hope you had a blast reading it as well. Honestly, I can't believe it's finally complete! It's a little bittersweet knowing I won't be posting a new chapter next Friday. Whatever shall I do with myself? ;)
> 
> Thank you all for the comments and kudos, and most importantly, thank you for reading. <3

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [butyoureyessaidyes](http://butyoureyessaidyes.tumblr.com) on tumblr. Come say hello!


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